


The Impossible Key

by phantombove



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, England (Country), F/M, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 129,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantombove/pseuds/phantombove
Summary: *Labyrinth re-imagined in Late 1700's England*The beautiful owl was gone, and there standing in its place, his expression thick with something akin to regret and hell-born anger, was the devil with mismatched eyes-- he leaned closer, studying her. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note: This is an AU. Its my own version of England in the late 1700’s. I apologize if I, as an American, botch England but— it’s fiction. This is my excuse. I do not mean to offend. Work with me on this, it was difficult to figure out and more so to write. I hope it eventually makes sense to you because it does in my mind.

And now without further ado…   
**********

**CHAPTER ONE**

_It starts with mismatched eyes.  
A glittering ballroom.  
An impossible staircase… and_

“And— nothing, I wake to the sound of shattering glass,” she sighed then added, “it’s always fragments, pictures that don’t make sense.” Sarah watched as her employer stared angrily at the machine in front of him. “I had another dream,” she said with an air of annoyance as he continued to ignore her. “I also dreamt that you gave me as a sacrifice to appease that damned machine.”

“I would never!” Blythe Tillens shouted back with a grin— he was listening after all. “You have proved a much more reliable employee than it will ever be! The bloody thing has done nothing but refuse to work since I brought it here two months ago!”

Sarah couldn’t help the small smile that appeared as Blythe swore repeatedly under his breath. He had spent all afternoon tinkering with the thing only to find that a single gear needed to be remade. He had been sure buying a small printing press would be profitable to his shop, but his hope crumbled when it stopped after two very untidy, unusable pages. The small fortune the press had cost would soon become nothing compared to the bill it was acquiring in repairs. More than half the asking price had already been spent before the current problem arose. It seemed the metal contraption was more hassle than it was worth and doomed to fail.

The final straw it seemed, was not the price, but rather the spot of oil and ink on the left side of Blythe’s face refusing to wipe clean. Though his light beard hid most of the stain, it would take at least a week before it would wash out entirely. Yesterday he would not have minded, stains at a scrivener shop were hardly upsetting, but adding the broken gear and cost of the blacksmith—again— he had reached his limit.

“I think it suits you,” Sarah smirked as he tried, and failed, to remove the stain from his skin. “It’s really not so bad, if you recall you run a printing press— it isn’t the least bit shocking that you would have ink stains.” Her eyes fell to the blotched apron that did little to shield her skirts from the drips and spills that too often found their way onto her lap.

Blythe huffed, throwing the blackened rag into the small basin at his feet, the greyish water puddling beneath the bowl. “You don’t have to lie to me, Sarah. I won’t send you packing for telling me how terrible I look— I might be tempted to give you a raise or even a promotion.” His arm made a sweeping gesture to an imaginary sign above his head, “Sarah Williams. Head Quill!"

“Tempting as it may be,” she smiled, then motioned to the empty room, “wouldn’t that be setting a terrible example for the others? It sounds like favoritism to me,” she asked, her face scrunched with mock concern. “But I accept nonetheless, and I demand you fetch me a quill made from the feather of a golden-winged unicorn!” Her giggles poured through her words as she bit back a fit of laughter.

Blythe’s own mirth echoed throughout the room; he wiped at his eyes as the sound faded to winded chuckles. ”Your price is too high. I am sorry to say my offer has been withdrawn.” He finished coming to her side to peer at the pages she had been copying all afternoon.

Her eyes followed his to the documents littering her desk. Though they had been completed nearly an hour ago, Sarah was in no hurry to fight against the rain and mud to make a delivery that could wait until tomorrow. “I finished right about the time you started reciting such lovely and endearing refrains to the Iron Beast.” Her green eyes darted from the press back to his, her voice a low whisper, “Be careful or your wife might start to wonder if you love that contraption more than her.”

“Ha ha,” He added dryly and moved the small footstool he had been using at the press to sit nearer to her. “So, mismatched eyes, eh? What does that even mean? Does one belong to a goat and the other a fish?” He gestured for the pages, the corner of Sarah’s mouth hinting at a smile. Blythe shuffled them together and turned to snatch a large envelope off the shelf to his right, carefully putting the papers inside.

“If I were dreaming of eyes like that I could easily forget them,” Sarah turned, languidly swiping up the tattered pieces of quill scattered over her workspace. It had taken her almost four hours and two quills (and one close call with the trimming knife) to finish her work.

“What bothers me isn’t the eyes, although they are odd,” her brows rose with an airy laugh-- they both knew better. “It’s how I feel for minutes, even hours after.” Sarah’s voice grew quiet, a faint ache stirring deep in her breast. She was lost and alone without any reason as to why. Beyond that was a hollow shell where a memory should have rested, but even now she couldn’t quite recall the slightest shadow of what was lost. _Something is missing._ She told herself for the hundredth time in the four weeks since the dreams began. 

Though they were foggy at best, the images felt personal as if every emotion was meant for her alone to brook. At times she could swear the broken jagged edges were the connections to moments long forgotten or not yet lived, begging to be remembered.

Her dreams were all the same, broken pieces to a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve. Though they were not identical, two things remained constant night after night. She always woke feeling a profound loss or a numbing fear that gripped her until she could flood the room with any source of light. Too many nights, the fear and emptiness had been so palpable she could do nothing but weep in the quiet confides of her room, while the very next night she might scream herself conscious. Her exhaustion was due as much to her lack of sleep as it was the emotional turmoil that followed in its wake. This, accompanied with the eyes that found their way into her dreams hinting at something she couldn’t name, was more than enough to leave her feeling bared and vulnerable. Even when she was alone.

Sarah had never seen the face they belonged to, but she knew as well a her own name, they were unquestionably male. They were possessive, leaving her confused and frightened because this man— of this she had no doubt-- looked at her with eyes that penetrated to her very soul. He was watching and waiting, but for what she didn’t know. Why would he-- anyone want to watch her? 

“Sarah?” Blythe’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, his brow wrinkled with concern when her eyes found his. She had been frowning, a hand clutched to her stomach in a desperate grapple for stabling comfort. “Sarah, is something wrong?”

“Is everything alright?” came the sweet lilting voice of his wife, Constance, from the other side of the shop carrying a heavy tray laden with tea and refreshments. She smiled brightly at the pair but the look faded into a slight frown the longer she stared. “You look awfully pale. Perhaps a bite might do you some good,” with a glance to her husband she added, “for you both it would seem.”

Sarah gave a small smile, the couple were far more than she deserved— the three were as close as family, and in many ways closer. Blythe and Sarah were stumbling toddlers together, sharing everything but blood, though the various scrapes and bruises acquired in childhood might protest otherwise. Even as they grew into the awkward years of adolescence where boys were taught to be men and daughters to sew and sing and sketch, the two remained thick as thieves. There were never judgments or pity, nor the false smiles and pretty lies, that others seemed too eager to offer.

Misfortune was a plague that had infected the Williams family in one fell swoop, leaving nothing but heartache and anger in its wake. The aftershock had almost destroyed everything Sarah held dear, including herself— Blythe had refused to let it happen. He became the light in her ever-darkening tunnel until every trace of tenebrosity disappeared. 

She had worried— sickeningly so— about her life after Blythe married. His betrothal to the Moss’ only daughter had been set before he was old enough to understand what being a husband meant. However, his parents had taken pity on their only child and ensured the two were never strangers, arranging frequent opportunities for them to be acquainted with one another. For years Blythe had promised Sarah that nothing would change between them, though it didn't quell the trepidation that overwhelmed her upon their first meeting. 

But he had been right, as usual, and their little makeshift family went on as if nothing had changed. And, if Sarah were to be honest, having someone else to talk to was, in more ways than one, a blessing she hadn’t known she needed. They listened to her and her strange dreams, never once belittling her concern. 

The bell at the shop door jingled against the frame— Constance turned but Blythe caught her hand halting her steps, “I’ll see to it.” He stood ushering his wife to take his place on the stool. He smiled down at her and pressed his lips to her plaited chestnut hair. “I think Sarah would prefer your company at the moment anyhow.” 

“The eyes?” Constance asked once they were alone, a knowing smile on her lips. She knew far better than even her husband how affected Sarah was by her dreams. One look from Sarah was enough to confirm any lingering suspicion Constance might have held.

“I should be terrified— and I am,” Sarah fell into her chair, “just not the way I should be. I should feel horrified not—” her mouth tried to form the words but she couldn’t find them, she hadn’t known any sensation quite like the one she felt when those eyes found her. Sarah stood, stepping quickly to the nearly forgotten tray and readied the tea, desperate to keep her idle hands busy.

Constance took her cup, waiting patiently for Sarah to take her seat once more. “I believe the word you are looking for is tempted.” She took an unhurried sip, her honey eyes never leaving the wide emeralds before her, catching the faintest blush that crept along Sarah’s cheeks. 

“You have told me many times about the mysterious eyes that tempt— yes tempt you Sarah— but I don’t recall much else.” Her tea had only moments of drinkable heat, and she swallowed as much as she could stomach. “What do they look like I wonder, to be so enticing?”

Sarah could not hide the color that brushed at her ears and burned down her delicate neck. “Piercing blue and smoked sage. One pupil dominates the other under striking chocolate brows encased in black wings and silver—” her voiced faded to a whisper as the memory took her, the air trapped in her breast as a foreign sensation danced across her skin.

“If memory serves, Richard’s eyes are not blue,” Constance’s brows shot up, her voice a gentle warning. “Lusting after your fiance is hardly a sin, but a stranger’s eyes— even in a dream can have consequences.” 

She didn’t need to explain— Sarah was all too aware of the implication. A moment later her face brightened, “No harm comes from dreaming, so long as you remember it is simply that— a dream.”

**********

He had felt the familiar pull for centuries. The sharp tugging of an invisible vice around his mind and tighter around the pulse of his magic. It was too common and he too seasoned to be bothered by it as he was in the early days of his reign. There was no pain, nor even the faintest hint of it as a dreamer called to him. Though it was far stronger when done deliberately— the pull remained even when a mortal’s mind called to him in the depths of sleep. It was always his choice to respond when summoned to a dream; even wishes could be ignored if said without true conviction of the heart and mind.

He ignored them often.

Tonight, the pull was different— he couldn’t explain how but every sense of his being felt it. For weeks he had felt something similar; it should have gone away but it only persisted to a festering wound of curiosity. He was annoyed by its consistency— fascinated by its strangeness, he answered the summons. Letting himself be pulled into the imaginary world he could so easily manipulate without tasting effort, he vanished from the warm comfort of his over-sized bed.

_The dream was new, only moments in its infancy, slowly building a world from the darkness of unconsciousness. Dirt and stone rose up to his feet as the last of the void faded into dank, brown walls glittering in the warm afternoon sun. Broken tangled branches littered the path before him. He was in a labyrinth— **his Labyrinth.**_

_**Whose dream is this?** It was impossible— mortals couldn’t dream of his kingdom— it was forbidden, sealed with magic far older that any fae he knew, and yet here it was laying before him, inviting him to transverse its pathways and tunnels. _

_He knew every stone, tunnel and oubliette hidden within its walls, every trap and puzzle. This was not the work of an active imagination trying to conjure the fabled Goblin City— no this was a mind that knew._

_This was a runner._

_His eyes darted to the gaps in the walls trying to find the impossible dreamer. Footsteps echoed against the stone, and he followed their soft steady click. Then silence, deafening silence— he stepped forward, moving around the stone wall obstructing his path._

_A girl._

_The runner was there, debating the paths and choices before her. She turned. An instant before their eyes could meet, the space began to crumble, the images changing around him in a blur of glittering whites and silver._

_Gossamer fabric dripped from the walls dancing their way to skim the sparkling floor. Shadows danced carelessly around the empty space before him crowding the seemingly vast room. Masked and unencumbered by the others, pushing their partners to an unheard tune. One lone figure pressed through the crowd. The girl._

_This was familiar._

_Her back was to him, her dark hair a stark contrast against the white gown and muted tones in the ballroom. His head shook of its own volition. **It can’t be-- It’s impossible.** His back straightened as she turned, time crashing to a violent stop as her profile came into view. His jaw ached as he ground his teeth together in utter disbelief. He took a measured step towards her as her small frame faced him head on. Wide, bright, naive eyes met his mismatched gawking. **Sarah.**_

_**Sarah was dreaming of him.**_  
__________________________________________________________


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWO**

_A crystal dances across nimble fingers._  
Thousands of hands pinch and grapple.  
The ballroom is spinning. 

The shop had closed. The late afternoon sun streamed through darkened clouds, warming the damp streets as she made her way home. The scent of rain, still heavy in the air, hinted at another autumn storm. Sarah liked the rain, so long as she wasn’t caught in the midst of a torrential downpour. She often preferred the solitude of dampened paths to the bustle of warm crowded streets. 

Rain promised seclusion— privacy from gossiping tongues and curious eyes that had nothing better than to wag and spit judgment as she passed. Puddle lined streets were a reprieve from pity and disapproving stares. They might watch from their windows as she made her way but that was an easy thing to ignore.

Sarah opened the large wooden doors to the brick gate of her home, her worn kid boots clicked softly against the flagstone path. Eyes sliding up to the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of her father. She saw nothing as she searched the face of her vine ridden home.

The house was magnificent once upon a time, when her parents were dumbfoundedly happy and her father infinitely more successful. For years he had been the most renowned architect and stone mason in the entire province, having made or renovated many of the finest homes of the wealthiest patrons. He had built this house for his young bride and the many children they had once hoped would terrorize its halls.

Restless commotion flooded from the kitchen as she swung the door open, her father’s voice rising above it all. “Where is it! Where did she put it!” Her fingers dug into the frame as she readied herself to face him. Setting her jaw, Sarah entered the house, quietly closing the door behind her. 

“Papa, what are you doing?” His head shot up with impossible speed, all trace of color gone from his face. His hands jerked behind his back as he tried to hide something from her, Sarah’s brow pinched. She watched the myriad of emotions flash across his eyes before settling into a baffled expression.

“Sarah!” He blurted, his voice several octaves higher than usual. “You are home early— I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” A guilty smile spread across his sweating face as he took a clumsy step back. Every line in his blotchy cheeks and wrinkled brow accentuated ten-fold as he stared worryingly back at her, waiting. 

“I’m two hours late, Papa.” Her neck craned to see the dark edge of the box Robert’s pathetic attempt at hiding couldn’t conceal. “Why do you have mother’s— my— jewelry box?” Her mouth set in a hard line— she knew the answer before he could fathom a feeble excuse to dilute her anger. 

There were very few things Sarah had left of her mother. A small faded portrait in a broken locket, a scratched wedding band, a few bobbles and notes all locked away in the small mahogany box clutched between fat, clammy fingers. Years before, when the crippling sting of loss was merely weeks old, there had been two boxes— one far larger and more ornate, lovingly carved with filigree inlays, and a delicate stained glass motif. It was enormous and filled with precious stones and jewelry fit for a queen. It remained untouched for years, save for the awkward fingers of a curious child— until, one by one, the items were pawned and sold, needed instead to pay the debts her father quickly amassed at the dark crowded tables and the bottom of a bottle.

Linda Williams had been dead six years, but she left her daughter’s life almost nine years ago in a selfish pursuit of fame and a rather ostentatious affair. Sarah held little sentiment for the woman who abandoned her as a child, leaving her to navigate the treacherous waters of adolescence alone. It was Sarah who had insisted they sell every last adornment and rid themselves of her presence. And so they did. The few trinkets that had remained were worthless, and though she wanted nothing more than to toss them into the sea, she could never bring herself to part with them. It seemed she was sentimental after all.

Sarah stepped forward, her hand raised begging him to remain still. “Put it down, there’s nothing left of hers to sell. Please, Papa, just hand me the box.” She turned her palm up waiting for him to place it in her grasp. _“Papa.”_ She whispered tersely, her eyes wide as she took another cautious step forcing his retreat.

Robert stood motionless for another moment before placing the box in his daughter’s ink-marred hands, an angry sigh pushing from his lips. “It seems I need a key.” He bit through clenched teeth, his nostrils twitched. 

“I locked it for a reason.” She stood tall and stepped away, pressing the box into the boning at her stomach. “Wash up,” her voice curt, “I have soup in the kettle— you can help yourself to that.” Before he could respond she turned and fled into the hall and up the stairs to her room, locking the door behind her.

Any reprieve her walk home had provided was gone now, and she felt the heavy burden that so often came from her father settle heavily on her shoulders. Gambling and drinking had been his way of filling the hole left in his heart by not only first wife, but his second as well. He managed, despite his wounds, to provide for his children and maintain his restraint. Though one would never accuse Robert of sobriety, he was always mindful of his responsibilities.

Until that too changed.

She would not give her father another opportunity to steal what few coins she had stashed away for an emergency. It was that meager amount she saved that had, on more than one occasion, kept them from going hungry when her father had gambled away nearly everything else.

On her knees she dug her fingers into the floor directly under the large honey oak bed that seemed to overtake the west corner of her room. With little effort, she pried a board up revealing the long-forgotten hiding place of her once precious and forbidden childhood memories. The coins would be safe, tucked away under the dented and faded hat box laden with cobwebs and layer of dust. Smiling, she pulled the battered keepsake from its tomb, tucking the jewelry box into the floor.

She had not looked inside in nearly six years, having almost forgotten its existence. With a breath she blew the thick layer of grey into a swirling cloud around her head. Careful fingers removed the lid, and she peered at the contents hidden within. A tangle of color caught her eye, and her smile grew. Sarah lifted a handful of white and pink ribbon long knotted into a messy web of cloth. Her first ball had hardly been memorable, but she had tucked the ribbons from her hair away as though they were a lover’s secret gift.

Sarah put them in her lap and inspected the rest of her supposed keepsakes. The nearly empty bottle of her mother’s perfume was the only item worth secrecy, but the small hand mirror with her initials carved into the frame, a long white tawny feather, and a locket— identical to her mother’s were hardly worth hiding. Even the small red leather book laying at the bottom needn’t be kept from prying eyes. There was nothing remarkable about the things she had once deemed worthy of saving, and looking at the array of mismatched totems she couldn’t help but laugh at herself.

Her secret box held no secrets.

**********

Muttering ricocheted off the stone walls, creeping around the dozens of staircases leading too many directions. His boots clicked as he stormed up one flight, turning on the abrupt edge to walk underneath another. He had been pacing for hours, climbing the stairs in a fury of restless anxiety. The girl was dreaming.

With a growl a crystal appeared in his fingers, and in the same moment he sent it flying through the air, exploding into a pool of glinting shards. Racing, he dashed up another flight, crushing a different bit of crystal dust under foot.. His agitation mounted with each step and improbable direction as he ran and paced in hopes of soothing his ire, but it only seemed to intensify his annoyance. Another crystal barreled into stone.

He couldn’t fathom how she managed to dream of the Labyrinth— or him. She won her prize, and like all the others before and since, she left. _Although,_ he paused hating the admission, _I offered her far more than any other._ But she refused, and became nothing more than a champion to him and his Labyrinth.

_Liar._

He snarled at the thought, bracing to throw another sphere to its death. She was nothing. She had always been nothing, but he had been too curious about the strong-willed girl desperate to save her brother, to see how foolish he was being. _I offered the world to an undeserving child._ His mind spat as he stared at the orb clutched in his gloved hand, trying again to pull her image into view. It was useless, he knew— the Labyrinth blocked champions from him as a reward for valiance. _It has to be a mistake. That wasn’t **my Sarah** — it couldn’t be. The dreamer might have looked like her, but it’s impossible._

_But if it weren’t—_

He had to be certain. If she was dreaming of him, she couldn’t have done it alone. The Labyrinth’s magic was far too ancient and powerful to be manipulated by a single human girl. “No, it can’t be her alone.” A smile too wide to be cheerful spread his lips, “Whoever is helping her cannot hide from me— not for long. So help me, Gods, I will find out who’s behind this!” He ground the crystal to dust between is fingers. A darkness bled into his is inhuman eyes as a single idea crept into existence. “I _will_ find you.” 

**********

Green eyes peered into the confides of the small field behind her home; the wet plants glistened in the fading hues of gold and bruised pink. She looked out over the array of vegetables and herbs, her mind wandering aimlessly. The air still sang of a promised storm as the sun continued to demand an appearance before the clouds ruled the sky once more. Her fingers curled and uncurled around the cold edge of the marble bench, her mind lost to no thought in particular. 

“Have you heard anything I’ve said, Sarah?”

She turned then, her head shook slightly as her cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry, Richard my mind was—” she looked back to the field and sighed heavily, “elsewhere.” With a sidelong glance she smiled, “I truly hadn’t meant to ignore you. I’m sorry.”

He returned her smile, “Eventful day?” The slight wrinkles around his dark eyes deepened as his brow rose with his words. Richard leaned closer to her, probing her to answer as he stared, his nearly black hair taking on a russet glow. He appeared almost handsome as the dying sunlight kissed along his cheeks and brow, heightening his plain features.

She had no idea how long they had been sitting there, but the damp and chill of evening began to creep up her spine making her shiver. “Hardly,” she huffed a quiet, sarcastic laugh, her eyes smiling apologetically as she squeezed the bench again. “Please, tell me again?” 

“I wanted to talk to you.” Though his voice remained light, Sarah could sense a severity dancing along the edges, waiting to take center stage. His eyes, even in the best of light, were a dull mud caught on the precipice of genuine and feigned interest. His sincerest attentions paled to the fascination and ardor of the mismatched pair of her dreams. She shook the thought away, and focused instead on the man next to her.

“If you remember, next week I leave for the hunt my cousin arranged. I received word this morning that my uncle has decided to join the lot of us.” The lines around his lips creased with the smile that pulled the corners of his mouth. “I want him to have the company of more than just my cousins and friends. So I have decided to bring your father.”

Before she could have enough sense to contain it, her face twisted to bewildered disbelief. “You want my father to go hunting? You— you would trust him with a weapon?” The muscles in her hands began to hurt with the force of her grip on the seat, her voice matching the expression plastered to her face. “Are you mad?”

“Sarah,” he warned, giving her a pointed look. “I think it would be good for him to have a change in scenery. We would leave Tuesday morning and return within the fortnight, as planned.” He raised a hand as her mouth opened in protest, effectively silencing her. “There will be at least six other men with me, I think we can manage the likes of your father, my little pet.” He tapped her nose lightly with his endearment. The gesture far more appropriate for a small child than his bride.

Sarah pulled away, her nose wrinkled instinctively. She hated the moniker he too often used, she was to be his wife after all, not his _pet_. Though she could hardly believe he would use the term to describe any of his animals. “True, there would be more of you, but Richard, this is my father. We both know how he gets, and having others around would do little to spur his actions. I doubt he would think twice before embarrassing you both.” A small _v_ pinched her brow at the thought.

“It’s hardly embarrassment when surrounded by friends. No one would think to judge him.” The seriousness finally took the spotlight, his eyes hard as he continued. “Sarah, he is going to be my father-in-law, my family. Is it so wrong that I wish to be close to you both?” His tone flattened revealing the lie at the base of his words. “An invitation like this might make him more agreeable in the _near_ future.”

Sighing, she stood, “Perhaps, but— but if he drinks you won’t be able to control him.” Her arms wrapped protectively around herself, shielding her from whatever cold remark might leave Richard’s thin lips. “He will want nothing more than to spend his evenings at the tables and I haven’t a coin to spare on such things!” Her voice rose and echoed around them as she stared into the sun until she was forced to look away. Hot tears burning a path down her chill-tinged cheeks, as she waited for his rebuff.

His muffled groan was her only warning before Richard settled his hands on her shoulders, his fingers circling the sensitive skin of her neck. She shivered but didn’t turn to him. “If you weren’t so beautiful you might be able to listen better.” His mouth brushed against her ear, the sharpness of his grip matched his timbre. “I am to be your husband, or have your forgotten?” 

How could she forget? 

She could hear the smile on his lips, but also the annoyance rumbling under the surface. “I am a very wealthy man, your father’s habits are hardly of any consequence. If he chooses to indulge his whims, who am I to stop him?” Richard’s hands slid away as he moved around to face her, the light haloing his muscled frame in the waning sun.

“An addiction is hardly a _whim!_ ” Sarah practically screeched, her chest puffed up in protestation as their eyes met. “Shame on you for not seeing that. You could have a hundred men— but if there is a bottle to drink from, a whore to ravage or something to gamble _nothing_ would stop him.” Bitterness bled from her words but they were no more than a pathetic whisper. “I have starved because of those _whims,_ as you so foolishly call them.” Drained, Sarah’s eyes fell to her hands, her voice even and austere. “He’s not going, I won’t allow it. _I can’t.”_ Her shoulders fell with her almost silent admission.

His fingers grasped the delicate point of her chin with bruising force, pulling her gaze to his. “I wasn’t asking your permission, Sarah— nor do I need it.” Richard stepped closer to her, their bodies almost flush, his eyes almost black as his voice quieted. She gaped at the abrupt change, unease clutching at her breast. “Don’t be mistaken _pet—_ I was merely extending a courtesy. I have no wish to repeat myself again.” 

He was right, of course. Without his impressive wealth, her father would rot in debtors prison and she would be fortunate if she could live out her days in the poorhouse, not rutting strangers in darkened alleyways. She was grateful Richard wanted her despite her father’s ruined name and impressive debts. Her beauty and her virtue were the only things keeping them from utter ruin, and she would not let the small matter of her pride interfere. Richard might encourage her father’s crass behavior, it was his money that funded such frivolity. A term she had readily agreed to upon sealing her fate.

Sarah liked him, or at least some very small part of her did. That in itself was as much a luxury as any— most brides in her position were not so fortunate. But it was his wealth and reputation that had made it nearly impossible for her to refuse his advances. Richard Lefroy would always get what he wanted, and she was very fortunate to be one of those things.

He straightened, the rancor vanishing from his voice in an instant, as he moved to caress her cheek. “I will shield you from debtors prison and the poorhouse, as I promised. You are far too beautiful to survive such a place.” He hummed absently to himself, “the things that would happen to you—” The pad of his thumb traced her bottom lip and he wet his in return, a low growl caught in his throat. “I will not withdraw my offer because your father cannot hold his liquor or his purse. Such depravity is beyond me.”

Richard lowered his head and hovered, "I do intend to collect a different payment, however." The whisper caught between their skin just before his mouth crashed against hers. His kiss was rough, all power and demands, only taking, but she responded, all too aware of how close they stood and how easy it would be to draw even closer. She didn’t love him, but with each stolen kiss and dangerous flutter in her core, she believed she could. 

When Richard released her, she sighed, her lips begging for more, as his eyes fell to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. His face flushed with the desire radiating off him in waves of heat and promise. “Worth every cent.” His nose danced along her frantic pulse, the fire in his belly growing as he caught the scent of her— peaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading. As always, reviews and comments are always welcome!
> 
> XOXOXO


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER THREE**

_A clock with too much time ticks away.  
Snickering echoes in a darkened room.  
The mismatched eyes laugh…_

The two were insufferable. It was clear to her (though the others would hardly notice) that neither one of them were happy. To the untrained eye, the man sitting at the head of the table and the woman to his right were having a polite conversation. A spectator might assume that the two were recent acquaintances or even new found friends. They were cordial, their manner cool and collected, as they listened to the other guests drone on about this or that with polite interest. To all others in the room, there was nothing to draw pause or concern with Mr.Lefroy and his soon-to-be wife.

Mariah Bishop was not fooled. Their smiles were enough to convince even their families and friends of their devotion. They were far too doltish to see the truth pulling at the fabric of the lie. But she saw what hid behind their eyes when others looked away. 

And how _could_ they be happy? The drastic difference in their stations was an enormous barrier, to say the least. Sarah’s family was reason enough to turn a sensible man away. Her father was a drunk, too often slumped over a table or unconscious in a whore’s bed. What good can be said of a wealthy man that can’t keep manage to keep a wife? Even if Linda Williams was not a lick better than her former husband, she at least had the decency to die and end her daughter’s humiliation. One can always be forgiven if they suffered greatly in death.

The only reason Sarah even attended social affairs was the Tillens, and the overwhelming amount of pity too many bestowed on her. That, and the unanimous (if unspoken) understanding that Robert was to remain at home. His behavior was appalling in the best of circumstances, and no one was willing to risk their party to see him at his worst. Though the rumors whispered behind demure smiles and dainty hands did not help Sarah, it was her father's loathsome habits that sealed her fate. Once word spread, any and all the tart's suitors fled.

All except one.

Richard Lefroy had fallen under the spell of that poor, disgraced little slut despite her many malfeasances. Mariah couldn't fathom what was so appealing about such a girl. Though it was true— and she hated the concession as much as the subject— Sarah was not ill-mannered or unkempt at all. Though her clothes were at least three seasons out of fashion and faded from use, she was never quite homely, even when ink stained her never-manicured fingers. What kind of self-respecting woman couldn't keep her hands clean?

Mariah daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with pristine fingers, the growl hidden in her throat caught, as she let a gentle smile brighten her face. It was too easy feigning absorption in the conversations surrounding her, while her attention was focused solely on the source of her irritation. It was no small effort to hide her disdain, but her good breeding and expensive tutelage would not go to waste on the likes of Sarah Williams. The wretch was hardly worth all the trouble poor Richard was made to endure on her behalf.

"What a fine pair they make," the aged voice on her left remarked. Mariah's grip tightened painfully on her silverware. "I was skeptical when my nephew told me of his intentions, but it seems I may have been a bit presumptuous. The girl will make a fine wife— even without a penny to her name." The woman was Lefroy’s aunt, a dour woman whose lips seemed forever fixed in a haughty purse. She was graceful and her presence commanding, while she may not have been a rare beauty in her first season, Alberta Rossen was certainly captivating.

 _Not another supporter!_ Mariah wanted to scream! How could she be the only one to see the truth? She couldn’t possibly be the only person in the entire country with any sense— that would be ridiculous! Were the others so enraptured with the leeching trite that they could overlook the scandalous history surrounding her family? Mariah wouldn’t stand for it; someone was bound to see reason— and it was up to her to show them.

“Oh yes, they make _quite_ the pair.” A grit marred her light tone, “but it is a shame about her family.” Mariah eased a quiet tone of pity into her whisper; best to play to the old woman's sympathies for the couple. 

“One would never guess that she was poor, at least from her manner. Style can be bought at any age, my dear, but refinement must be taught young or else it cannot stick.” Alberta watched the other end of the table, approval written across her aged features.

"I am so glad you have not let her unfortunate circumstances hinder your good opinion. I am convinced that your acceptance will open a great many doors that would otherwise have remained closed. Rumors can do such horrible things to the best of people, don't you agree?" Her lie sounded genuine, even to her ears.

Alberta’s brows rose, but Mariah knew better— the woman devoured gossip like a pig to slop. “There are rumors about Miss.Williams?” Richard’s family lived near London, and as such were not privy to the tattle of her quaint town and surrounding hamlets. Mariah saw her window of opportunity, and she would be a fool not to leap through it.

"Well, they are not as much rumors as talk." With a repentant frown she purred, "The poor thing's mother abandoned her for her father's apprentice. Of course, her father didn't take it too well; one can almost sympathize with his taking to the bottle to drown his sorrows." Demurely her eyes swept beside her in mock hesitation as she leaned closer. "He managed, by throwing himself into his work, to hide his true nature for years. He even remarried and that same year welcomed a son, it seemed luck had finally caught up with them." Mariah paused as if the words both pained and relieved her.

"That is an _interesting_ story, and one I am afraid I had not heard." The graying woman was serious and her eyes tight— livid. Mariah swallowed the smile that threatened— this was much easier than she hoped. The old fool had the power to stop this egregious marriage, all she needed was a little push. 

"If only that were the end, but I fear there is more. I think Mr. Williams was always in love with his first wife— even after everything— because when word reached him of her death he became a different man.” The blonde allowed a piteous frown to pull at her rosy, wine-tinted lips. “He began spending all his nights at the tables surrounded by women." Mariah whispered, a shy blush crept over her cheeks, as she feigned demure embarrassment. "Over the years he became— _unmanageable—_ until one morning poor Sarah and her father awoke to an empty house."

“ _Both_ his wives left him.” It was not a question. Mrs. Rossen fell mute, not even her breaths made a sound, but the look in her eyes told Mariah more than words ever could. “It seems my original apprehensions were well grounded, indeed.”

A slight cough pulled their attention to the plump widow sitting just down the table. "I couldn't help but overhear," The woman's heavy frame shifted nearer in her velvet lined seat, a pudgy hand rising to touch the pearls at her throat. There was a delighted sparkle in her eyes as she spoke. "I am afraid Miss. Bishop omitted some rather pertinent details."

Acting abashed, Mariah’s eyes fell to her empty plate, her cheeks tinged with heat. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rossen, it was only out of respect for Miss.Williams’ reputation, of course. The poor girl has been through so much as it is.” 

Alberta’s eyes widened, “Of course dear. By all means, Mrs. Garrow, continue.” Her voice held a demanding edge that echoed across her face. “I find I am rather anxious to hear the rest.”

"Robert lost everything, and amassed a small fortune in debt. His creditors threatened Irene— his second wife— and the babe. She was gone the very next day. Word is she fled to country where her parents have a small cottage, and there she remains. I don't believe she has any intentions to come back, but one can scarcely blame her." The widow shook her head in disbelief. "That poor girl was forced to find work to avoid the poorhouse, and were it not for the Tillens, I don't know what would have become of her."

Three pairs of eyes turned to the girl in question, each holding a different kind of disdain. One for the mother who had abandoned her, one for the reputation that soiled her, and one for the woman herself. 

"Sarah and Blythe are practically brother and sister.” Mrs. Garrow continued. “He and his family have watched over her from the beginning, before everything went wrong. When her situation changed they offered to take her in as their ward, and they did for a handful of months until her father demanded that she return home. He threatened to go before the courts and claim she was kidnapped.” 

Mariah was unaware of this detail and found herself leaned even closer to hear the sibilated tale. Sharing a shocked and horrified expression with Alberta, she found she could only stare as the tale reached its end.

“You see, as Robert Williams was alive and sound of mind, at least in the eyes of the courts, the Tillens charity _was_ kidnapping! Legal documents are required when taking in a ward and well, without them— “ Mrs. Garrow let her voice trail off, this was no longer a tale of gossip, but a tragedy of Shakespearian intrigue. The handful of woman listening with rapt attention, even the troublesome Miss. Bishop felt a pang of lenity. 

Finally, with a softer, more sincere resonance the widow finished. “With no other alternative, the Tillens secured her a position as a scrivener their shop, The Quill. The girl has talent. She is, dare I say, the best scrivener within fifty miles.” Speaking more to herself than the small group, Garrow added. “I often wonder if the late Henry Tillens had not already promised his son to another, would Miss. Williams have become Mrs. Tillens?”

“ _A scrivener?_ ” Alberta said disdainfully, “Her tale is rather unfortunate, and for that she has my pity— but a scrivener?” Her nostrils flared, chest puffed as her jaw set. “Richard this is unacceptable!” Her voice roared to the end of the table. The room fell silent. Even Mariah’s eyes widened in delighted shock. “Explain yourself.” Alberta’s eyes flew to her nephew pinning him to his seat.

"Aunt Alberta did you need something?" Richard asked, his brow arched. The matron's expression stone as she studied the green-eyed girl with what Mariah knew was newfound scruple.  
Soft-wrinkled lips pursed, she breathed deep through her nostrils before speaking. Her tone calculated. "My dear boy, perhaps you would care to explain why you are engaged to the likes of _her_?"

When he did not respond the woman practically growled, her hand slamming crassly against the table, causing the glasses to tinker and clink from the force. "I will not be ignored, you were raised better than this!" Flinging her long finger, she pointed to the shocked brunette sitting ram-rod in her seat, a sickly expression on her face.

“Alberta!” The startled voice of her husband cut above the tension. His face red from both shock and embarrassment.

"Henry, your nephew has attached himself to a shop girl whose father continues to lose all their money gambling and in the beds of whores." Her voice was sharp, the words biting at the air around them. "And her mother a strumpet! Running off with an apprentice! Even her new mother couldn't handle such ruination!"

"Aunt Alberta, you must be mistaken," an all-too-relaxed man beside Mariah chimed. "Richard knows better than that." He was Richard's cousin and consequently, his closest friend; Francis Durrow, a wealthy second son with a reputation as devilish as his looks.

Mariah was certain he knew all about Sarah, but she was still unsure of his opinion of the woman standing in the way of her happiness. Francis' blue eyes smiled at Mariah knowingly; it seemed he had been eavesdropping with wicked intent n she now had an ally. "Wouldn't you agree Charles?" A dark grin spread on his lips as his tongue absentmindedly picked his teeth, his attention fixed on the horrified bachelor in front of him.

Charles coughed with a start. It was clear he wanted no part in this. "Well, um— she is a— lovely girl. She isn't at all like her father. His—er— reputation should not be held against her— don't you think?" His embarrassment reached his ears, flaming them red as he stuttered through his pathetic response. Charles Stobbs was far too meek and quiet, always endeavoring to be both fair and kind never speaking ill of anyone— even those who deserved it. He was utterly useless to Mariah's plight.

As more voices began to chide in their opinions (none of whom were Richard, Mariah noted with glee) she allowed herself to savor the look of horrified shame plastered to Sarah's overly pietistic face. The girl seemed to shrink within herself, her eyes sweeping to Richard, pleading for him to come to her aid, to defend her honor— or what little she had left of it. Anyone could see tears trapezing on the bottom of her eyes, dancing on that thin line waiting to tumble over. Mariah didn't bother hiding her look of satisfaction— she didn't care if someone took notice. They had all played quite spectacularly into her hand and she was determined to enjoy herself.

Feeling giddy— she took a long sip from her wine glass watching the awkward movements of the umber-haired pretender down the table. Sarah looked as though she would be sick. She seemed out of place in every way; her dress looked new (no doubt a gift from Richard) but the soft peach print made her look sickly and pale, and not chosen by the girl, herself. The fit was less than ideal, presumably a premade thing pulled from the rack only days prior, her hair was pulled into a plain chignon that was more fitting for a spinster than a bride; tied back with ugly faded ribbons.

Mariah couldn't have been happier if she had planned the disastrous enable herself. She was superior in every way. Where Sarah was pretty and small, with dark hair and soft eyes, Mariah was beautiful and tall: her neck swanlike and her eyes darker than a midnight sky framed by flaxen curls. Not a single hair was ever out of place, nor dress out of fashion. She was perfection personified.

The wealthiest and most respectable bachelor in the county deserved nothing less than perfection, a fiancé much better than the drab Sarah Williams. Mariah would have been an ideal match for Richard's hand, God knew how badly she wanted it. Yet for some inane reason, she had been found wanting.

"Richard!" Alberta snarled, leaping to her feet with such force her chair teetered on its back leg. "I demand an explanation!" Her voice was much higher now, almost comical in her distress. "I refuse to allow you to marry her."

Richard sat back in his chair even-tempered, arms resting coolly by his sides. He looked— bored. His eyes focused on everyone and no one. He said nothing, letting an uncomfortable silence wash over the party giving nothing away. His right hand drummed on the armrests the rhythmic tap, tap, tap, tap of his fingers dropping in quick succession of each other.

"Well, if you insist on this outrageous match I wash my hands of it." Clearing her throat she smoothed the front of her expensive silk gown before lifting her chin defiantly. "I refuse to dine with the likes of her." Aunt Alberta's voice had settled some as she made to move from the table, disgust pinching her face as though something foul poisoned the air. "I would suggest— especially you unmarried girls— to leave at once, lest you spoil your reputations too."

"My _dear Aunt_ , their reputations were in danger long before my bride entered the room." All the brows in the room rose on cue, startled by his reply. He spoke so casually one might think he was talking of the weather, not defending his fiancé from a vicious attack. "It seems the sins of the father damn the child- but what about the sins of the child? Surely they are just as harmful to the family? What do you think Aunt- since you have such intimate experience with these things?"

His face turned from serious to light-hearted curiosity, adding. "Of course, I wouldn't know. Perhaps, your past experience can shed some light on the matter- since cousin Eliza managed impregnate herself with that bastard child her husband rightfully refuses to claim." His smile broadened to an unpleasant toothy sneer as he leaned comfortably into his chair.

"Or was your youngest daughter Henriette not done enough damage as Sir Bernst's mistress? How many bastards have slid from her womb, it is so very hard to keep track." His voice remained calm, level, his eyes never leaving hers. "Tell me, how many dinner invitations were revoked once word had spread of your daughters' libidinous behavior?"

The crone fell into her seat, stunned. Richard turned to his uncle and resumed their conversation with a long sip of wine. He made no notion or gesture to Sarah, effectively ignoring her presence altogether. He said nothing further to his aunt and likewise seemed intent on doing the same with his bride, proceeding as though nothing untoward had ever happened.

Sarah was quiet. Mariah fumed.

His formidable aunt was not, in fact, a threat to anyone now that her secrets had been exposed. The awkwardness that followed consumed every facet of the room, until Mariah was sure she could drown in it. _He defended the little minx!_ Though she had expected some gallantry to be sure, she was otherwise unprepared for the savagery of his defense. Who could have predicted he would chastise a woman of Alberta's standing! _I should have been better prepared._

She could see her error and was determined not to make it again. She would need something far more damning than rumor— she would need _proof._

**********

Only a few short hours remained…he knew— somehow— it would be tonight.

His anger had turned to a thrill of excitement. Eagerness had a taste, and the flavor lingered on his tongue. He felt the adrenaline of a hunt coursing through his veins. Predator vs. Prey. It had been years since he twisted a dream with such purpose; having done so at his leisure for nigh on a century, it was good to have a cause. Two days he had been planning, patiently waiting the moment she called to him. He dare not to go otherwise, refusing to be caught unawares again. If there was no call then the matter was settled and his fears would all be for not. 

But she would call to him— he was certain. And when she did he would be ready. He would rule the world of her dreams, because he was meant to. The labyrinth was only part of his domain— the lesser part if he were honest, but his genius was the mind. No other before, and certainly not after, could boast of such greatness. For as pathetic as mortals were (and Gods knew they were ants) their minds held a power all their own. No other being could dream like the mortals; full of fear and promise, hope and desire, despair and hate. It had taken him centuries to become what he was, to master the art— for it was certainly that— of deception so proficient the mind couldn’t tell the difference between magic and its own subconscious. It was easy, and rather amusing, to twist the mind and trick a dreamer. He could create dreams and nightmares from the barest memory, or pull them entirely from his own imagination. Though not with her. He was bound by rules, like all of his kind, and the price to be paid for such defiance— he dared not think on it. 

But Sarah _had_ called to him. She had done the impossible, albeit unknowingly, and now he was free to come and go as his mood suited. She was now at _his_ mercy and he had plans. Call it revenge or threat (he didn’t care which) that drove his curiosity to monstrous levels, he would go mad not knowing how or why. But he would learn— eventually. 

If the Goblin King was anything he was patient, he could wait an eternity— she could not. The game was set— she would lose, devil take the hindmost. For when he learned what he must, and she served her purpose; Sarah Williams would never dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I am excited about where the next chapter will go! I promise next chapter Sarah and Jareth will finally interact. (all good things to those who wait) Please feel free to message me questions, comments, concerns— a good joke. I won’t hold chapters hostage for reviews— though they are VERY appreciated! I hope you all liked it and I have not let anyone down.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**__________________________________________________________**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_Hands touch softly in a dance._  
A song rings with promise.  
The world falls down… 

_The ticking of a clock filled the ballroom, seeming to grow louder with each passing second. Music played teasingly around her, quiet enough to know it was there, but too soft to name. It was beautiful, and she found her ears straining to hear it better against the whispering chorus of voices prattling about the room. She heard disembodied words, but they sounded far away, as if they came from the bottom of a deep, black well. A weight pressed against her chest— invisible but solid— making it hard to breathe. Hard to think._

_A throng of dancers twirled in slow succession, their bodies achingly graceful as they glided across the floor. Faces she knew moved past her— jovial smiles and delighted grins whirled in a blur of friends and neighbors, each flitting carefully around the couple poised at the center on the dance floor. The room glowed. An unearthly shimmer clung to the air in a translucent white haze kissing across her skin._

_Sarah let her eyes wander over the array of moving bodies before fixing on the prominent pair at the center: Blythe and Constance. With a smile, the memory caught her. This was their wedding day. Free in their movements, their hands met and fled in time with the haunting tune. They were beautiful, and not just in their dress and appearance; the very air around them was charged with splendor. The sense of euphoria engulfed the entire dance floor, and vibrant smiles twirled and wove together in a stunning display of joy._

_The weight on her breast pulsed, forcing Sarah’s gaze away. She felt unwelcome. Unwanted. A bitter taste pushed up her throat with nauseating determination— she was going to be ill. Her head swam as she turned, desperate for an escape. Tears stung her eyes, the moisture blurring her vision as she moved further from the crowd. Her shoulders bumped against other dancers as they tried moving closer to her friends._

_“Please, let me pass— Please.” She pushed back, hard, fighting against them as best she could, until her steps faltered. The crowd grew dense, closing in on her as if she were a rabbit desperate for retreat. Only she had none. No burrow to hide within. No sanctuary from their insidious glances. This was all wrong._

_Masks surrounded her._

_Fiendish smiles seethed as they corralled her. “Please, let me go!” She bellowed, the sound falling on deaf ears. “I want to leave! Let go!” She was crying now, unable to keep her tears restrained behind her lashes. The hollow faces studied her uncaring; the static expressions mocked her fear. **“Stop!”** The music had grown louder hiding her words in the sea of strangers. _

_**“HELP!”** Her voice became ragged as she shrieked. The room became too hot. Sweat dripped from her brow in a salty mess, her once-perfect curls matted to her reddened face. She could hear them laughing— was this a game? Was she a toy for their amusement? The swell of laughter grew to a growling roar; a ringing pulsed in her ears. **Where is Blythe? Constance? Richard?**_

_Sarah fought harder, trying to push the weight of them away from her small frame. Her heartbeat overtook the music, drumming an ache behind her eyes. Hands pulled and tore. Vicious. Torrential. Grappling her this way and that, threatening to rip her apart. Those whose mouths were exposed smiled, grinning like wolves at her misery, their eyes beading with hatred behind the disguise._

_Fingers scratched at the patches of exposed flesh— her cries grew hysteric. Fabric ripped beneath their claws. They would tear her apart. Their sharp nails and dull fingers would shred the skin from her bones, flaying her like a beast. Sarah’s head thrashed as she fought against them, her voice hoarse. The noise was too much: the music, the laughter, the cries— her cries. She tried to cover her ears, but her limbs were lead in the grip of so many. A flash of white drew her eyes up. An owl perched on an arrant pillar. Hungry eyes watched the macabre scene waiting for its turn to pick at her remains. It would gut her, staining pristine white, tawny feathers with her browning blood._

_She hated the bird._

_Her scalp burned— the grip in her hair was relentless. Her toes began to bleed from the crushing stampede of tormentors. Stars flashed in her eyes. Every inch of her body hurt, the pain building to— what she prayed— was the final crescendo._

_Then silence, for the briefest of moments._

_The hands released her, and the music was once again a magical refrain purring in the distance. She looked up from the floor, a mess of tears and fabric, to see a thinning crowd and no sign of those who had attacked her. The pain danced across her skin, torturing her senses. Someone was standing beside her, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor. She saw trousered legs out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t bring herself to look. A gloved hand reached to her and she moved away, only a fraction, but he saw. She could feel it._

_The hand never wavered— waiting until she gave in and blindly took what was offered. Her muscles shook as if with fever, though no further evidence existed of her turmoil. The last remaining tears dripped from her eyes as she was pulled graciously onto the dance floor by her mysterious partner. He curved his fingers around hers and stepped closer— Sarah held her breath. Her mysterious partner placed his hand against her back, taking control with such delicacy that she hardly felt his touch at all, their steps never breaking as he joined them seamlessly with the others._

_They twirled around the ballroom dancing to the music as though they had done so a thousand times before, but Sarah couldn’t dare to look at him. What horrors waited when her eyes found his? Another mask? Or something far more sinister? Fear outweighed curiosity and her eyes focused instead, on the happy faces of the— now— much smaller crowd. They seemed genuine, and Sarah found her self begin to calm— if only just._

_She inhaled, and the scent of sandalwood and lemon tickled her nose, bringing with it a wave of relief. Richard had come to her rescue after all! She sighed, all her fear dissipating with that single breath. Floating along, light as air, she was guided with an expertise she had never before known. They turned and turned until she felt breathless, and yet she never wanted the dance to end. For here, in his arms, her fears were easily pushed to the shadows where they could not harm her._

_In a rush, the weight that had so heavily pushed against her heart vanished. The sudden reprieve from her burden was not a soothing balm, but rather an acute sting lodged deep within her core, breaking like a dam. Tremors, imperceptible to anyone but herself, snaked through her muscles as her adrenaline pitched to the floor. Relieved to be shielded by his strength, grateful the faces were no longer a swirling blur of color and pain, Sarah cried. A strangled whimper halted their movement._

_They stood motionless amid the flock of billowy fabrics gliding around them, the masks fogging in the wake of her tears. Humiliation overtook her as she thought of her wet cheeks and reddened nose: what a sight she must be! Her head fell into him as her hand covered her face. She was buried in glaring white linen at his chest, her fingers making purchase in the dazzling lapels surrounding it._

_Strong arms held her close, tightening around her— possessive. Long fingers stroked her hair as she hiccuped on a sob. “I’m sorry—” Her muddled voice shook in the ruffled shirt, “I— I thought— but you’re here!” A sniveling whine lurched from her pale lips; she felt weak and callow. “I was so frightened.” The words were as a fragile as a prayer trembling into his broad chest. “Thank you—” Her voice finally broke, “thank you.”_

_Sarah began to calm. Each breath perfumed with lemon and something that could only be Richard grounded her. Though the tears still ran steadily, the knot that had so tightly coiled in her stomach unraveled at his touch. For the first time, her heart felt a stirring, a faint flicker of hope lighting the bleak space in her soul where she had long-since locked him away. It was a foreign sensation, her polite acceptance of the situation had ruled her emotions for months— but now she wanted more— could see more in their future. Allowing herself settle into his arms, Sarah rested her head lightly at his chest as the music caressed her. They still weren’t dancing, but it didn’t matter— she was content, and for the first time in ages— happy._

_A faint laugh floated over the noise. A sense of confusion slipped past her bliss. Sarah needed to tell him all her heart had revealed, all that she now wanted from him; she lifted her gaze to his face. A chill ran through her, and she wrenched away from him. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that might have been a scream had her breath not caught in her throat. It wasn't Richard. It was another man, thin-faced with wild hair and those eyes--those penetrating, pale eyes that haunted her dreams—smirking down at her._

Sarah woke, chest heaving as she fought to slow her breaths. She lay drenched in a cold sweat, her heart pounding in her chest with such force that she had to struggle for each breath, wheezing for air like a drowning man. Deep in her chest she ached from the tumultuous pounding of her heart as she remembered the fear: fresh, sharp and overwhelming, a force that consumed her soul. Even now she couldn’t quite recall the faintest memory of it, but the danger pulsed and grew around her. It was an entity all its own, living and breathing into the night, furiously grasping for anything it could manipulate and conquer. The lingering unease kissed up her arms leaving gooseflesh in its path. Tears dropped onto the sheets then all at once a steady stream ran down her face. She couldn’t help herself— her body trembled as she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 

Weary, over-tired eyes darted about the room. Her panic abating as she stared int the moon-lit space— nothing was different about this night. She had woken frightened, but it was a dream. Nothing more. Like countless nights before she had dreamed and now could only the recall the broken pictures flashing in her mind: dancing, masks, and the eyes. 

As she settled into her pillow, ready to steal whatever sleep she could grasp, the fading images kept her company— lulling her to the precipice of oblivion. The moment she would have plunged into a dreamless rest, the mismatched eyes found her, framed with wild hair and a devious smirk.

Sarah jolted upright, the revelation flooding her senses with a single memory. It was indeed a man haunting her dreams— and she had seen his face!

**********

Nothing extraordinary had ever happened in thirty-six days. The world was created in seven. Ten plagues haunted Egypt for twenty-six or so days, and even Jesus Christ fasted for no less than forty. If anything was of consequence, it did not happen in thirty-six days. Though she was hesitant to admit such a thing, Constance was aware of just how much time had passed since Sarah’s dreams began; the number itself was of little importance. But something had changed since last night and she had a strong suspicion it had nothing to do with Mr. Lefroy.

Constance swallowed the questions plaguing her tongue. A quick glance to the sky showed slate clouds rather than the afternoon sun. They would not have long before the rain would drive them back inside. She peered out at the rippling water, its surface— on a windless day— a perfect mirror of the bright ether above. A single stone turret jutted from the sweeping current; whatever it had once belonged to was long forgotten beneath its muddy depths. The lake was tucked away; hidden within the forest behind the cemetery walls. 

From what she understood, Blythe and Sarah found it quite by accident shorty after the scandal surrounding Sarah’s family came to light. It became their secret. Their refuge. Concealed by the trees, safely veiled from the eyes and ears of pious vultures who reveled in the condemnation of sinners, they could forget their troubles if only for a few short hours. Here they played, laughed, cried— learning its secrets and trading theirs in return. This was their haven; the pebbled shore, and crestfallen logs provided more sanctuary than any cathedral ever could.

Ineptly, she tossed the small stone in her hand hoping it would leap across the troubled loch— it sank instantly. Her lips pursed and she turned to Sarah; her tired eyes staring up at the clouds, fingers toying with the corner of her faded shawl. “I can stand it no longer! Tell me, what did you dream that had you in such a state this morning?”

“I wasn’t in a state.” 

“You were, and you know it!”

Sarah turned her attention back to the sky, the wind swirling between them. “I dreamt of your wedding— or something resembling it. People were dancing; some I recognized and many I didn’t. You and Blythe were at the center of it, so wrapped in each other I hardly think you noticed the other couples. There was music— a song— and I heard it as I’ve never heard anything in my life before.” Her lips hinted at a wistful smile, “I couldn’t sing it to you if you asked me, but I can hear it even now, playing faintly between each breath.” Sarah turned to her, brow furrowed, and as she spoke a seriousness settled in her dark-rimmed eyes, “It felt wrong. Or at least, I did— I was unwanted. Somehow, I knew I was not welcome there.”

“If we made you feel unwanted or unimportant— I am so sorry, Sarah. We truly hadn’t meant to! You were—are wanted.” The very idea was absurd, heartbreaking. She and Blythe had done all in their power to ensure Sarah was as much a member of their little family as her own sister— if not more. Suddenly, Constance understood why she had been so adamant they come alone; the knowledge would have gutted Blythe. Aside from her, Sarah was the most important person in his life, more so than even his parents. All he ever wanted was to see her happy— not withering away, forgotten in black corners of London. A wave of nausea stung in her throat— how could she tell him?

“Oh! Constance— No!” She grasped her hands, giving them a firm squeeze. “You have never made me feel unwanted— or unimportant. I promise.” Her look was intent and left no room for doubt as she smiled. After a moment she continued, their hands still firmly together. “I never felt that way at your wedding— I swear. However, there— in that dream— I was unwelcome. It’s strange— not a single person spoke me, and yet I felt the overwhelming sensation that I had to leave. So I did— or at least I tried. The small party became a massive hoard swarming me like flies to honey. Their faces suddenly changed and they were no longer your guests but masked strangers. I have never seen such terrifying faces, and the more I cried— the more frightened I became— the harder they laughed! I tried to escape but they began to attack me! Oh, Constance, I thought they would tear me apart! I didn’t know where you or Blythe— or Richard were! I screamed— begged for help, for them to stop— no one listened.” Tears slid down her cheeks, and her voice trembled. “I don’t know how long it went on, but it felt like an eternity and then—” Sarah stopped, her breathing ragged.

It took her a moment to find her voice again, and she only managed a whisper, her mouth too dry for more. “Then it stopped. All at once the crowd vanished— the masked assailants gone like smoke, leaving no trace of the carnage I had endured. As though it hadn’t happened at all.” 

Sarah stared into the earth. Wayward tendrils scattered and whipped about her face, wild and unruly. She looked like a small girl, alone and frightened. Constance could find no words of comfort or solace. Her own body trembled, a sudden chill that could not be blamed on the impending tempest. Thunder rolled in the distance, the ominous drums ricocheting through the trees.

“Then he was there—”

“Richard!” Constance couldn’t stop the relief flooding her voice. With a soft chuckle she chastised herself— it was only a dream after all. 

The faintest smile touched Sarah’s pale lips as she continued. “We danced and I wasn’t afraid anymore, because I knew he would protect me; I knew I was safe.” Her expression turned pained, distant . She pulled away, one hand pressed firmly at her stomach, a reflex born of trepidation, meant to stable her nerves— or today, her heart. “I never wanted him to let go— I belonged there, wrapped in the security and comfort of his arms. It was the first time I felt that I may be able to feel something more than admiration for him. If he inspired such feelings in me—” She shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe the words on her lips.

A smile so broad it was nearly painful split Constance’s face, her eyes alight. She had never expected such news— only hoped for such fortune to smile upon someone so ill-starred. Perhaps her marriage could be blessed with the same kind of happiness as she and Blythe’s.

Sarah turned to face the water, the wisps of her hair flying wild about her, “I hadn’t even the courage to look him in the eyes, so I focused on anything—everything that wasn’t him.” Her words fought against the billowing wind, both desperate to be the ruling sound. Constance remained rooted where she stood, curiosity and hope vying for her attention. Thunder crashed again, as if proving its worth amid the chaos. 

“I wanted— needed to tell him, and I could ignore it no longer. I could feel the desire picking at me the way an owl picks at its prey—” her words faded away, a hint of disbelief trailing in their wake. The odd image appeared stark in her mind, as Sarah remained silent.

“What did you do? What did he say?” She prodded, softly. The fierce currents pulled the sound away, but the straightening of Sarah’s spine proved they met their target. 

“Nothing.” She turned, her eyes burdened with heavy tears, each blink sending another skating down her face. It was not sorrow or hurt lingering in the reddened jades now boring into her; it was unease, trepidation— fear. “When I dared to look, it was not Richard I saw— but him.”

“Him?” She repeated breathlessly, her head shaking with both shock and confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“I saw him, Constance— I saw his face.”

“Whose face?”

“The one the mismatched eyes—”

She gasped, stepping forward, “Y-you saw him?” A puffed breath of laughter and alarm shook her shoulders. “Well?” One side of her mouth pulled into a smile, her brown eyes sparkled with delight. “Who was he? What did he look like?” She urged, excitedly.

White lips moved, trying to form the words but no sound came— or it was lost on the wind. Shaking her head, whether to banish or summon the memory, Sarah sighed into the heavens. “He was tall—” her eyes narrowed, “fair, and— and pale.” Her words stumbled ungraciously between them. “He was striking and wild. Proud— demanding though he never said a word to me— but he smiled.” Sarah watched the water toss and the trees bend. “The moment our eyes met I felt suddenly— I knew— that the center of this man’s attention was a very dangerous place to be.”

They were quiet. Neither quite knowing how to continue without worsening the silence with an ill-managed attempt to improve it. It had only been a dream, a harmless illusion conjured by the sleeping mind— but this felt different. This felt wrong.

Wind whistled through the towering trees, bringing with it the sweet scent of rain. Droplets began to splatter about them; several fat pearls landed on her shoulders— they wouldn’t have long before the full fury of the tempest was upon them. A burst of lightening shot across the sky, the quaking rumble that followed shook the earth. “Sarah, we should go—” The heavens roared again and she jumped— her words drowned beneath the sound.

Sarah hadn’t moved. 

Her body stood frozen in the whirlwind, eyes locked on the sky, mouth agape. Rain dripped from her hair as she remained immobile, snowy knuckles gripping the shawl to her chest. White and fawn feathers clashed against the darkened sky and gold-green leaves, where one silly owl settled in the branches, unencumbered by the angry weather. Sarah’s lips trembled and she worried the lower with her teeth. Her eyes were round and wide, locked firmly with the small black pools of the animal balanced on the arm of the tree dancing in the wind.

“It was real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, please review/comments! XOXOXO


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_A King stands at an open window._  
The rules are set.  
She runs… 

“Blythe you weren’t there, you didn’t see her.” Constance placed the water jug on the table, then dried her hands on her apron. She glanced across to him, her expression agitated and alert. “This dream was different— I think she remembered all of it— or at least most of it.” She couldn’t help the cold that raced up her spine as she recalled Sarah’s words. The rational part of her wanted to reassure the the poor girl that she had nothing to fear, but another part wanted simply to run.

At this, her husband turned, his curiosity blooming, “She remembered all of it?” He rubbed his hand across his beard, the stain from last week nearly invisible. “That is odd, I’ll admit— but darling, I hardly think it is cause for concern.” He moved close to her, placing his hands on her shoulders, leaning to rest his forehead to hers. “I know you are worried— I understand— but they are just dreams. Have you ever known a dream to be dangerous?”

She shook her head gently, then pulled back, her eyes searching his. “You feel it too, don’t you? It feels— seems— “ She paused trying to find the right word, but there wasn’t one, it all felt “wrong.” She finished, “It feels wrong.”

He nodded in return, his thoughts turning from Sarah to the woman in his arms. Her compassion never failed to astound him. In his best moments he could never hope to equal her goodness, but he could admire it and try to be worthy of if. He was much too cynical to ever emulate her, so he watched and prayed that whatever children they might have would be blessed with even the faintest taste of it. 

He kissed her, catching her unawares, but she recovered quickly and returned his desire with equal measure. Her arms moving to wrap around him, drawing him closer. Breathless, she pulled away— a warm blush tinted her cheeks as her voice rasped, “Blythe, the food will get cold.”

“Damn.” He spat, glancing quickly to the table then back at this wife, a wide grin spreading his lips. “I’ll eat it cold.” In an instant they both moved, she to run, he to chase. With a soft cry she darted to the other side of the table, her eyes alight and wild. “Mrs. Tillens, are running from me?”

“If you must ask, you are not nearly as brilliant as I once believed!” she called, and sprinted to the open doorway of the kitchen. Blythe caught her just above the elbow, pulling her back. She tried to wiggle out of his arms; now wrapped firmly around her middle, holding her to him. “Blythe!” He only squeezed her tighter, laughing at her struggle. 

His merriment was cut short when her healed-boot connected heavily with the top of his foot, eliciting a string of curses. He let her go, and she fell to the wooden floor with a resounding thump. “God help any man that tries to be forceful with you!” he hissed, bending to pull her upright.

“I’m sorry!” Her voice ripe with concern. “If I’d have meant to, I would have struck you much harder.”

“Of that I am certain.” He pulled her close, kissing her hair as he often did, an arm wrapped loose about her shoulder. “Well, you’ve won. We’ll eat first.” Blythe smiled, guiding her to one of the antique chairs at the head of the table. “Though, I dare say the food would have kept well enough in our absence.” He winked, and motioned for her to take her seat.

They ate in companionable quiet, neither feeling the need or obligation to fill the silence with idle chatter and useless squawking. It was not unpleasant, the quiet that surrounded their little family, on the contrary, it was comforting— the knowledge that they could occupy the same room and find peace and understanding without the need for words or touch.

Her conscious however, did not feel this way, and Constance felt she must speak or go mad from thinking too loudly. The day’s events had left a certain stain in her mind, ignoring it seemed to make it spread deeper— saturate and spread like ink pooling across parchment. “She saw him— Sarah— saw him.”

“Saw who, Dear?” Blythe asked, seemingly oblivious to the abruptness of her tone. Between one bite and the next, his eyes hardly lifted from his plate; too focused on the meal laid before him.

“The man from her dreams— the one with odd eyes.”

“Did she now?” His lips quirked with interest, “Do tell.”

“There’s isn’t much to tell. She doesn’t know who he is— she’s never seen him before.” She took a long swig, then frowned.“It was all very peculiar, the way she described him. ‘Tall, fair, and pale.’ As though she was trying to be obtuse.” She looked thoughtful a moment, “She was afraid.”

Blythe’s understanding expression drifted over the glass raised to his lips. “I can hardly blame her.” The conversation fell away, both lost in thought as they ate, until an odd look swept across his chocolate eyes. His head shot up in quick succession, a disturbed frown creasing his brow.. “You were alone— at the lake— I assume?”

“Unless you consider an arrant barn owl companionship, then yes, we were.” Her brows knit together, “Why, does it matter?”

With a heavy sigh, he stared at her, his concern palpable, “Should anyone hear— that is to say— should anyone misinterpret Sarah’s dreaming—” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them. It was no secret their town’s superstition was a beast entirely its own; men and women alike were eager to blame everyday occurrences on the supernatural— or more accurately, the Adversary and his puppets. 

Though women had not been burned for witchcraft in quite some time, it was an ever-present thought waiting to surface like some great monster of the sea. “You and I know she is perfectly sane.” His voice stern in his assessment, “I agree with you both: this _should_ be taken seriously. Until we know what— who— is behind this, Sarah mustn’t tell a soul.” 

He looked down, idly staring that the half-eaten food, distracted. “Fear and superstition are two very dangerous things, and rumors can be far more damning to a man than sin. Dreams might not light the fire under her feet, but it will bring an Estate carriage.” His lips set in a hard line, she instantly knew what he was thinking before he opened his mouth. “I doubt Mr.Lefroy would be so understanding should one come for her. Neither he, nor I, have the power or means to stop them.”

Unseen fingers traced down Constance’s spine— a wave of foreboding so deep, she lost her breath at the thought of it, crashed brutally over her. Lead fell to the pit of her stomach, killing her appetite on impact, her lips, white as death, whispered a wayward prayer at her husband’s words.

“The Estate doesn’t need proof.”

**********

_“Make your wish, Sarah.” He purred her name, warm lips brushed her skin with each word he shaped, climbing the column of her throat, kissing across her jaw. He found her mouth with his. Her lips parted to his without hesitation, as her whole body softened with a sigh. He deepened the kiss, molding her lips against his. Wild leucous hair tickled against sensitive flesh as he broke the kiss moving his mouth lower._

_“Sarah.”_

“Sarah! Get up, you lazy girl! It’s almost light out!”

Sarah rolled to her side to avoid the end of her father’s cane, used only for ceremony, from nudging painfully into her ribs. She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked about the small kitchen where she had fallen asleep— yet again. Her back creaked in protest when she sat up from the wooden bench. She had every intention of sleeping on her large mattress, but it seemed exhaustion had won the night.

“Get up, or I shall make you sleep outside! Hurry and fetch my things before your fiance comes to collect me.” His face, which could only be described as mean, moved close to hers. He smelled of whiskey and whores. “You look terrible girl. I dare say Mr. Lefroy would might revoke his proposal if he ever saw you in such a state!”

“Well, which is it to be, Papa?” She asked, pushing away from him. Her irritation mounted, bringing with it a headache lodging deep in her skull. “Shall I gather your things, or prepare my bath? I cannot do both, no matter how loudly you shout.” She bit, her voice low to spare her head further pain. 

Robert’s angry expression grew even more frightening: something Sarah hadn’t thought possible before her stepmother fled to the countryside. The harridan let his cane fly and sent a wooden bucket across the stone-tiled floor. It smarted against her knees forcing her eyes to water.

She would not let him see her tears. 

Standing, she wrapped a thin wool blanket about her shoulders, and returned her father’s crassness with a kind (if not genuine) smile. Without another word she slid her cold feet into the over-sized work boots kept near the back door. Bucket in hand, she left to the fetch the water her father would hardly use before his departure. When she returned inside with her heavy load, teeth chattering against early autumn morning, her father was waiting. 

“About bloody time.” He said under his breath, tossing his paper on the table. Sarah was certain he hadn’t been reading as she moved to heat the water over the small fire. Setting her jaw, she grabbed the small pitcher near the sink— the water was clean if a bit stale— and washed her hands. Gasping, she scrubbed her face, her teeth chattering at the shock of cold. She would use the warm water for the rest of her morning ablutions, she decided— once her father left.

The thought sent her mind racing, her worries surfacing, yet again. “Papa,” she said frantic, coming around to where he sat watching her. Kneeing before him, she grasped his meaty hands between her own delicate fingers, her grip firm, desperate. “Promise me you will contain yourself. Please, don’t overindulge, _I beg you.”_ She raised up to look him more steadily in his dull, aged eyes, hoping he could see her fear and apprehension. “You cannot take advantage of Richard’s hospitality. Please, Papa. _Please.”_

Robert’s eyes darkened; he yanked his hands away with a violence that had her recoiling— frightened of him. He slapped her faster than she could think to pull away, the sting forcing her to wince. She rubbed her cheek, grimly determined to have her say. “Papa, I won’t stand by while you ruin what little respect we can still claim! If you want this marriage to take place you _cannot_ disgrace us any further!”

The large man moved past her, almost kicking her out of his way. “I do not answer to you, girl.” Without another word he marched to large black pot hanging over the flames. With a growl, he raised his cane, swinging full-force. The echoing _crack_ of the splintering wood shook her. The pail dislodged, the water extinguished the orange flames, splashing onto the grey floor. 

He thundered to her, hatred burning black in his eyes, his hand reared back. She felt her cheek split under his thick ring, before landing painfully on her hip, hands slamming brace her. “You are my daughter— not my wife. I do not answer to you. I will do as I please and you will stand aside. Silent. Lord knows you are good for little else.” 

Robert’s grip bruised her arm as he dragged her, tripping across the room. “Your fiance will be here any moment— do not make him regret his choice.” He flung her into the stairs; satisfied with her sudden cry upon impact. He huffed and stalked away, back to his chair near the pathetic fire. He didn’t see the hate radiating off her in droves as she fled to safety of her room. Nor did he hear the scream she buried deep within the worn feathers of her pillow.

__________________________________________________________

He could still feel the warmth of her hands pressed firmly against his chest. Her skin was softer than anything he had ever known, smooth as water washing over his fingertips. The chaste touch of their hands had parted her lips (he had sensed it, though she refused to look at him) the barest trembling breath escaping in fear— or something far more damning. She was so still in his arms, her eyes liquid pools of warmth— if she had only looked at him.

It was cruel of him to do what he had done, he knew, but a King did not have to explain himself. Her actions merited his suspicion; the ends justified the means. Who would he answer to? Who would dare to question him?

She had acted afraid. Her mouth had thinned, her lips pressed firm. Instead of widening with interest or— whatever other emotion he had expected— her eyes narrowed, then grew far too round for her face in fear. He knew fear. He understood fear. Fear drew lines in the sand, turned stone to dust; it was cataclysmic, a destroyer. Men lived and died for it— because of it. Oh, yes, he wanted her afraid. He _needed_ her afraid.

She was the enemy— for everything she had done, all that she was doing now. All that she might still do. He hated her. He despised the power she still claimed over him. The scent of her: wine and roses, lingered in his brain, the feel of her curls teasing his jaw. He abhorred the want— the need— that so keenly called to him.

Starlight filtered through the open window, where he sat idly dancing two crystals through his lithe fingers. The motion calmed him, grounded his thoughts, tempered the debate storming withing his blood. The disquiet under his skin yearned for her warmth, yet all his uncertainty concerning her intentions, her behavior, his suspicions, troubled his soul. 

She was temptation and torture.

**********

In her limited experience, Sarah found that setting to a task when her mind was ill at ease could do wonders to sort her thoughts— which is why she knelt on the floor, her skirt ringed with water as she scrubbed fervently at the tiles, the harsh soap drying her hands as she scoured.

She found no relief in her work; the sound of the brush scuffing and the gentle splash of the water did not calm her thoughts at all. _It was only a dream,_ the half-hearted mantra swirled in her thoughts. _It’s only coincidence— you’ve seen plenty of owls before._ Sighing, she sat back on her heels, rubbing her wet hands on her homespun apron. “This is ridiculous!” She shouted to the empty house, feeling embarrassed for doing such.

_A bird in a storm is hardly proof!_ She cursed herself and leaned forward to continue her efforts, but the floor was clean. She had scrubbed it two nights prior, after the less-than-friendly dinner party had gone awry. In fact, she had cleaned the entire house from floor to ceiling, even going so far as to dust the unused and empty rooms. It had taken all night, and the better part of the morning, but she hadn’t dared to stop— anger drawn forward from self-consciousness and humiliation had fueled her. 

This was different. She wasn’t angry— not at the dreams. She was nervous and, dare she admit, frightened. The problem was not the reoccurring dreams, or the strange emotions that accompanied them. Nor was it that hateful owl that she couldn’t seem forget. It was— as it always had been— those beautiful, mismatched eyes haunting her every thought. Now they belonged to someone, a stranger— a man— who was not her intended.

Were she a better liar, Sarah might have convinced herself that the touch she had dreamt of these last three nights, had been that of her fiance. Her guilt would be assuaged and perhaps the reservations she had about her marriage would be for an altogether different reason.

With a groan, Sarah rubbed her face, wincing as her palm grazed her purpled, cut cheek. Tears sprung to her eyes, not out of pain— she’d endured worse— but she couldn’t help the morbid sorrow that lodged deep in her breast whenever her father turned against her. Though not a daily occurrence, its frequency was enough she couldn’t call it a rarity. Her father had never been called a gentle or soft-spoken man, but he had never been cruel— stern and determined— but never malicious. The transformation had come on slowly; an errant raising of his voice or shortness of temper. Then all at once, his words began to wound and eventually so did his hands. 

It was a burden Sarah bore alone— her only true secret.

Pushing such thoughts as far from her mind as she could, Sarah looked to the window; the setting sun painted a glorious picture against the glass. Where is the owl now? She wondered, her thoughts taking an abrupt turn, knees going numb beneath her, Had he hidden away after the storm, sheltered from the blistering rain? Or had he stayed perched uncaring on the dancing branch? Why it mattered so much to her was an anomaly of its own.

Her right hand toyed with the locket hanging delicately from her neck, her fingers caressing the tiny carved-ivory rose adorning the center of the weathered and tarnished silver. _Good Hell! It is only an owl!_ Her hand clenched around the necklace. _And they are **only** eyes. _

“I wish it _were_ here, “ she said serious, then breathed an airy laugh, rolling her eyes. “If only to prove my sanity.” Perhaps she _had_ lost her mind. After all, what grown woman talked to herself— and about barn owls no less?

With a grin she tossed the brush into the large wood pail, not caring how many puddles the action created. No one would see the floor she had spent hours washing— and those who might, would not give it a second thought. Sarah rolled her neck, bringing her hand to massage the tense and stale muscles, sighing audibly. Perhaps all she needed was rest; Lord knew how troubled her sleep had become, or what little she had of it on the nights she wasn’t thrashing about for one reason or another. 

Light filtered through the slats of the door, freedom (though from what she didn’t know) whispered to her, beckoned her outside. Sarah stood, her legs protesting the sudden movement, then went to the door and pushed it open. Golden light spilled into where she stood, along with a brisk autumn breeze. Misty air greeted her as she moved down the steps and onto the soft earth. 

Wading through to the bench she so often occupied, Sarah stood, her arms wrapped warmly around herself in a soft embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time she found such solitude. Calm, soft as candlelight, painted itself into the scene, becoming as much a part of the beauty of the night as the moon and stars. Basking in the brisk glow of the sunset, her eyes closed, feeling the warm siennas and deep mauves seeping into her bones.

A soft rustle pulsed on the air; the sound carried gently to her ears. Her head inclined, eyes still closed, unwilling to break the tranquility that had overcome her. Her cheeks dusted pink in the chill, arms squeezing her body tighter trying to pull the warmth deeper.

The fluttering twinkled again.

Slowly her mossy irises looked out into the fading light, then rolled to the sky, agitated. Setting her jaw, she turned— her anger melted away instantly. Mouth agape. Ice crashed through her blood stealing the air from her lungs.

The owl.

Black marble eyes watched her, studying her as she stepped tentatively forward, holding her breath. Its wings twitched, opening a fraction, talons shifting warily beneath it. The bird seemed to glare at her— if such a thing were possible. The round head cocked to the side, and involuntarily, Sarah mimicked the movement.

Deciding quickly, she pushed closer, then stopped short. The rounded stone corner of the bench collided sharply with her knee. A hiss slid through her teeth as she fell forward, catching herself on the offending masonry. Her eyes darted up to the fence. The bird was gone. 

Her palm slapped loudly against the stone, the sting radiated through her hand. “No!” She bellowed, watching the creature disappear over the trees. Pushing up from the bench, her anger burned away to a sensational, overwhelming wave of curiosity. Without a second to question the absurdity of her thoughts, she ran.

Skirts lifted, she made chase. Sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, she darted to her refuge behind the cemetery. Not knowing if she was running to the creature or away from it, Sarah bounded and stumbled across the familiar path. Her throat and lungs burning from exertion, the muscles in her legs ached in protest. She had never run so far, so fast.

Sarah wound down the path behind the last row of graves, and climbed down the ladder at the wall. Running the moment her feet struck the ground on the other side, she wove between trees and broken underbrush, leaping over the bramble in her path. Finally, she slowed, sliding across the damp grass and pebbled shore and into the clearing, her heart thundering wildly against her ribs.

Her ragged, gasping breaths sounded so strange against the quiet symphony of the animals and trees. Sarah turned wildly, searching the crest of the tree line and even higher to the sky. The winged beast was nowhere to be seen in the dying sunlight. “Where are you?!” Her eyes darted between the sky and the colored leaves scattered about the branches. _Had he come this way at all?_

Gooseflesh pimpled down her arms as she stood statuesque and alone, shivering in the twilight. She must be going mad to think that an owl bore any ill-will against her. Whatever had possessed her to take flight at such an hour? Sarah did not understand her motivations— even now she couldn’t name what rooted her to the spot she now stood anxiously waiting, hand pressed firm against her corset.

Loneliness draped over her like an unwanted blanket in the scalding warmth of summer. It weighed upon her like an over-sized cloak; she wanted nothing more than to cast it aside. She was disappointed. Her shoulders hung as she stepped back, putting distance between her and the shimmering water. Whatever she had hoped to find wasn’t hidden within the forest, or beneath the water’s depths— she might never find it— if it existed at all. Oh! How she wished for answers!

Whispered words echoed quietly in her mind. A memory stirred, the voice so foreign and familiar she could hardly think, purred between ravishing refrains. _Make your wish._

What wish did she have to make? Who would hear it? _Certainly not the owl._

_Make your wish._

Her hand braced against the nearest tree, eyes drifting back to the lake, lit beneath the last of the light before glittering stars would claim the sky. It was silly, she knew, to entertain such a notion. Rational minds did not make wishes under the canopy of trees, on an algid evening— alone. But what could such foolishness cost her? There was no one to watch her, no one to judge or belittle her. People wished for things everyday, why should she feel ashamed? They were only words.

Biting her lip, she closed her eyes tight as though bracing for impact. “I— I wish—” She stumbled over them, not knowing what to say. Embarrassment colored to her throat as her fingers tapped the trunk impatient. Nervous. With a cough, her shoulders squared, “I wish— I wish he were here— now.” 

Silence surrounded her, skin prickled in anticipated awareness. _What did you expect?_ Her eyes opened to the empty wood before her, an impish smile played on her lips as she chewed them. Her teeth began chattering— her time was up. The game played and lost. The owl could wait. 

With one last glance behind her, Sarah turned— her scream stopped short. Fumbling back she fell, landing hard on her ankle, the cry bursting free. She scurried back across the earth, tears pooling in her eyes and falling heavily down her cheeks. Fingers dug into the dirt as she dragged herself back, shaking, fear nestled somewhere in the recess of her mind, like a phantom in the dark, its icy fingers choked her. 

A man stood at the water’s edge. He moved nearer to her, his footsteps sure on the uneven ground. He was dressed in black, the large cape billowed behind him as he closed the small distance between them. Power radiated from his every pore. He was a demon. The devil with yellow hair.

Sarah pressed her back into the tree wedged behind her with such force, she was certain she would meld into it. “No! No!” Shaking her head violently, the words blurring together. Panic overtook, her lungs heaved and wined as they dragged air through her trembling lips.

The man stopped before her bending down to match her level— his wild hair tugged by the breeze. He was smirking— his eyes searching her, watching. Her chest heaved in an effort to breath, the ragged gasps the only sound. He leaned closer studying her. His devilish eyes— mismatched— grew cold, calculated. Dark. He frowned.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You know what to do! Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER SIX**

_An owl takes wing._  
A wish made.  
He watches… 

Her whimpering made his skin crawl.

He slid his trousers up his legs and rolled off the bed. The smell of sex, sweat, and tears permeated the air. The patter of rain tapped against the sill of the open window; the floral-patterned wallpaper under it would be permanently damaged. He didn’t know the girl’s name, but it didn’t matter. She had served his purpose and slaked his lust.

Digging in his pockets, he pulled an extra coin free, flipping it onto the lavish bed at the center of the room. “A little something extra.” It was less than half what she was worth, but he knew she wouldn’t press him. She stared at him through damp lashes, as though she was just seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was, since he refused to face her— not wanting to ruin the picture his mind had painted.

“Come now,” he told her with unsympathetic eyes, the irises blending with the pupil. “The night has hardly begun. You cannot be worn through already?” He chuckled at her answering groan. Yes, she would do nicely. “I do hope you will enjoy yourself this evening.”

He stood and pulled on the rest of his clothes. Now that the wench had tempered the rampant lust clouding his mind, he could begin to truly enjoy himself— and he had every intention to do just that. God, how he needed the distraction. Leaving the crying form on the bed, he left; a smile played on his lips as he made his way down the stairs.

The voices carried the muffled song of men laughing and regaling previous conquests; it was exciting. It was power— beating louder than drums of war, screaming like a bleating lamb for its mother it beckoned. His entire being was consumed with the desire to possess— to conquer— but his will was stronger. He would not possess for the sake of owning. He was far too controlled for such thoughtlessness.

He could afford to lose control here.

Lingering on the final step, he watched the hunger grow in their eyes, the eagerness turning to dangerous lusting. The noise faded away to a waring buzz of blood and sin, as they turned to him in silent acknowledgment. Too long he made them await his signal— none daring to test such wrath— and tonight they would satisfy the growling beast.

Were they not watching closely, they would have missed the slight nod to the men behind him. The waiting would all have been for naught— but they weren’t even blinking. The two standing nearest strode carefully up the steps to retrieve the girl. She was still naked when she made her way down the steps, but her full breasts and rounded bottom were not (as she assumed) the reason for the lingering, lascivious glares. She stood frozen under their silent scrutiny, suddenly afraid.

He stalked to her, hands set carelessly behind his back, his mouth curved in a sickening, toothy grin. He brought his face inches from her; tears dripped and splashed onto her round cheeks, rolling to land on her clavicle. His tongue lapped at her jaw, drawing a lazy line to the corner of her eye. She cried harder as he licked her. He then pulled back, groaning deeply, savoring the taste of her fear. The smile gone from his face as he brought his hands, one clutching a blade, into view.

She stepped back, her feet trembling. Strong fingers viced her arms, holding her firm as the glinting steel moved closer. Her head thrashed wildly as she vainly fought against them, her efforts only serving to tire her rigid muscles. The cold blade kissed the hot skin of her stomach. She stopped moving. Her breath was entombed in her throat as the weapon lingered. He stepped back leaving her skin unmarked— perfect, as urine stained the floor beneath her.

“We are going to play a game.” His voice was soft, gentle. “The rules are very simple. You last until sunrise, your life is yours— otherwise— well it hardly needs explaining.” He turned, gesturing to the large grandfather clock at the opposite side of the room. “You will have the advantage— a head-start, if you will. The hunt begins at midnight.”

**********

The man stopped before her, bending down to match her level, his wild hair tugging in the breeze. He was smirking— his eyes searching her, watching. She strained to see more of his face, or him, half shadowed and so very strange. Her chest heaved in an effort to breathe, the ragged gasps the only sound. He leaned closer, studying her. His devilish eyes— mismatched— grew cold, calculated. Dark. He frowned. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Sarah said nothing, nor did she move. The silence stretched wide as she dug her nails in the dirt, every ounce of her body filled with strain. “I didn’t— I’m not—” she fell silent again, the fluster of her words echoed by the tempo of her heartbeat. She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat, her thoughts whirling. _This is a dream. He can’t be real._ Yet here he stood, watching her as closely as she watched him, waiting for her reply.

“You claim to know nothing?” he growled, his eyes glowing beneath his strong dark brows. His pale lips curled into a grin. “You make a poor liar.”

She drew in a sharp breath and raised her chin, weakly masking the emotion with defiance— or the appearance of it. “I’m not— y-you’re mistaken.” Foreboding quivered under the icy surface of her skin, radiating across her senses with gale force.

“Am I?” He grinned deeper now. “I think not.” If he could provoke her, what might she do to prove him false? To prove him true?

Her hand flew to her face hovering over her mouth, he wondered if she was holding back a scream or a sob in her trembling spot on the earth. The tiniest breeze tugged the wayward strands of umber back, gifting him a perfect view. The evening light had not diminished, nor hidden her beauty, but served to enhance the features he had long-hoped to forget. He should never have come. She might have forgotten him and her strange dreams if he’d had enough sense to let it lie. Curiosity killed, and he had plunged the blade in his heart the moment he answered her summons.

“Oh, God— I’ve gone mad.” She whispered to herself ignoring him altogether, slender fingers tangled in the curling locks at her scalp, tears glossed her eyes. Sarah could not control the rampant tremors skating down her spine, would he hurt her like the masked demons in her dream? Or perhaps he only meant to frighten her with his domineering countenance? “I’ve gone mad!”

He laughed, a loud guttural roar that forced a shrill across every nerve, it was sharp but not unpleasant. Confusion must have read clear on her face, for as quickly as it started, the sound died, leaving a wake of ominous silence in its path. 

The stranger stood, moving away from her, but his baritone carried as easily as if he stood at her side. “This is not what madness looks like, I can assure you.”

“B-but you were a dream.” The words were softer than her heartbeat, steadier now, though it still hammered like a caged bird batting against the bars. She looked up, her eyes drawing him in like a hidden treasure cove. Her throat tightened, thick with emotion and turmoil. “This is impossible— you can’t be here.”

He turned, a brow raised in arrogance, “Are you not enjoying my company?” He crossed back to her in a single stride, stopping mere inches from her cowering form. Watching. Waiting. A light gust of air swept between them, the dusky chill sliding across his face as he towered, pinning her with that haunting stare. Her small frame shook beneath her shopworn dress.

He made no move to help her.

“Who are you?” The question begged between long, slow breaths in an attempt to regain a semblance of power over the absurd situation in which she found herself.

He frowned, “You’ve claimed me nothing more than a dream. Does it matter who I am?” Waiting for her reply, his hands braced authoritatively on his hips as his looked down his nose at the woman in the dirt.

On purpose he extended a gloved hand to her. He was forcing her to remember her nightmare— not because he longed to touch her— he reminded himself. What did she matter to him now, after all this time? Ignoring the unwanted thoughts, he leaned forward, just slightly, letting his hand hover before her.

Sarah hesitated like she had before; the seconds pulsed around them until finally, she placed her small hand in his, letting him pull her to her feet as though she weighed no more than her threadbare dress, now damp with dirt and leaves.

Their hands met as casually as any had before and as many would thereafter, but his touch was a fire of emotion teetering on the edge of more. His hand, even through the glove, was warm and inviting. Hers was so small and delicate in comparison: she looked so pale against the dark leather. The contrast so stark, she hadn’t noticed his thumb drawing lazily across her knuckles in a whispered caress.

With a gasp, Sarah pulled herself free. Her hand dropped, and the blooming spark yearning to be a flame became merely embers on dying coals as she clenched her fists painfully tight. Wild, terrified green eyes were swallowed in the sea of his peculiar irises, but neither dared speak. The longer they stood stalemated, the more palpable her worry became. Apprehension constricted her voice from forming any of the words she so desperately wanted to say.

Clearing her throat she began as evenly as her trepidation would allow. “You have in-invaded my dreams— _every night—_ for _weeks_. I d-don’t know you and yet,” her voice faltered. “Yet you have taken liberties th-that— ” she blushed a fierce scarlet unable to continue. After a moment, she met his gaze, her jaw firmly set. “Yes, your name matters.”

The stranger leaned forward; the tiny hairs on her neck stood at attention. “Can one take liberties in another’s dream without invitation?“ His voice dropped to a low, scraping whisper that felt more like a touch than a sound. Tremors spiraled through her, settling deep in the pit of her stomach in an alarming coil of heat and tension.

Her hand flew of its own volition, slapping against his cheek with enough force to make her palm sting and burn. The next moment she recoiled, wilting like a dying flower. He found no pleasure in her defeat. His anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen. 

“I’m sorry— please—” Her words were small, eyes wide enough to cause pain, laced with fear. The fire he had admired so long ago had been snuffed out.

“You dare raise your hand to me?” He goaded her, waiting for this pathetic façade to falter. This was not _his Sarah._ This was a rouse meant to distract him from seeing through to the game she played. But he was not so easily fooled— not by her. Despite the guilt crawling up his throat her threatened. “If I can enter your dreams, I wonder what I could do to your dirty, little hands.” His lips pursed, a brow rising in challenge.

Sarah staggered back, her ankle vaguely protested but she ignored it, bracing herself against the nearest tree to keep from falling. _He is going to hurt me!_ She had temporarily lost the sense of her own physical presence, before the need to catch herself brought her back to the queer reality of the moment. Nodding her understanding, her head fell, and her eyes studied his booted feet— dread weighing heavily the pit of her stomach.

Surprise at her pusillanimous cast and whomever had put it there pulsed around his anger, forcing it to burst free. “Don’t play games with me, Sarah! I invented them!” He stormed to her, a gloved hand snatching her jaw, forcing her head up. His eyes bored into hers, as her breath quickened. He didn’t shout, but his voice was no less powerful. “Stop your incessant crying! Tell me what you are about!” He leaned closer to her, his eyes turning dark as his voice fell to a venomous growling whisper. “Admit you know me.”

Know him? _He_ was the usurper of her dreams! The impostor in the dark beckoned with a _wish!_ Her lips trembled without consent as an unwanted tear rolled down her cheek splashing against his hand, still holding fast. She hated him— hated herself for her tears and the paralyzing fear overtaking her. She should be stronger. Braver. Sarah shook her head in protestation, unable to speak the words stuck firmly on her tongue. He wanted an answer she could not give, to a question she did not understand.

His grip firmed as he pulled her closer, her heels just kissing the ground as she tried to keep her balance. With teeth bared, he lifted his winged brows, flashing an insidious grin. “I’ve a gift for you.” Never releasing her, his free hand moved into view, light collected at the tips of his fingers and vanished, leaving a crystal sphere balanced at the peak.

“Wh-why? What is it?”

“It is a crystal. Nothing more. But if you turn it this way, and look into it— it will show you your dreams.” His eyes burned as he studied her, transfixed with the ball moving impossibly over his fingers. “But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby brother—” Sneering, he waited for her recognition, ready to spit her lies back. _I have you now._

Sarah’s head shook in his hand, confusion her only readable expression, “You’re mistaken— I don’t have a brother— not anymore.”

“What do you mean?” He snarled, pulling her chin to his. She grabbed his wrist to steady herself, rising to her toes to keep her breath. He was not hurting her, but how long would that last?

“She left— years ago.”

“Why?”

“My father. He was a disgrace.” She stared into his eyes, the one pupil dominating the iris, the other quite small, as though he was calculating her every move, no matter how minute or accidental. “He drank and gambled more than we had— his debtors came to collect and when we couldn’t pay, they threatened her and the boy. They left at first light— I have not seen them since.”

His head cocked, disbelieving. “Why didn’t she take you?”

Her face fell, though not in anger or sorrow, but self-pity, “I am not her daughter. I was my father’s burden, not hers.” Glaring at him, Sarah pushed away, wanting some distance between them. His hand held firm appearing as though her struggles were of no more consequence than a fly, as he remained quiet. 

Terror grew to annoyance as she waited, and when she could bear it no longer she dared her own question. “Why should it matter?” With surprising force, Sarah dug her fingers into the leather, pulling from his grasp. He released her willingly, and she stumbled back with a grunt. Her steps were awkward, but she managed to right herself quickly; the lines on her forehead creased as she looked up at the impostor. A battle waged between them, neither knowing the stakes, both desperate to win.

She was innocent, in part— of that he was certain. This small, frightened thing before him was not the architect of some malevolent plot centered around his destruction. That knowledge however, did not provide respite, it only dug a deep hole of concern within his mind. If she was not he the offender— who was? Far too many questions needed answers and if Sarah couldn’t provide them, could anyone?

_She will be your downfall._ He wouldn’t deny the truth that waited in the shadows for his acknowledgment— he knew better than to cast it aside like an unwanted garment. _The answer to this mess is staring me in the face!_

Sarah was not the culprit— but she remained at the center of a mystery far too important to forget. He would watch it closely— let it brew, until he could decipher the message woven into the tendrils of the swirling fog. She had given him what he asked, and he would get no more from her. He did not understand how, or particularly why Sarah had called to him without an offering, but he would learn— tonight, however he was finished. 

"Go home Sarah. You'll catch your death." Hiding his grimace, he lifted the abandoned crystal once more, but he did not toy with it like he had before. Instead, he took a step back and tossed it; her chilled fingers fumbled to grasp the small orb shining under the blue blanket of night. She studied it, as though it were a rare jewel, her hands caressing the gloss surface with such care it almost made him envious. 

Bewilderment fluted her brow as she peeked at him through her lashes. The smirk he wore so well lingered on his mouth. "Forget me, Sarah." Spinning on his heel, he walked away into the dark glade.

_Forget him?_

_Forget—_ the idea swirled curiously in her mind as the heavy sphere heated in her hand, spreading warmth through to her toes. _Forget— Forget me—_ the word engulfed her in promise and security. _Forget me— forget—_

“No!” She shouted, as the space between them grew. Dashing after him, the crystal slipped carelessly into the dirt, shattering upon impact, glistening before it evaporated into nothing. 

Sarah did not notice. 

She rounded on his dark form, forcing him to stop in his tracks, her empty hands clenched in her skirt to hide their trembling. Though unsteady, she spoke clear, sounding far braver than she felt. “I gave you my answers. You will give me yours!”

Surprise flitted across his face so quickly, that she wasn’t sure if she had seen it at all. “Go home, Sarah.” He moved to step around her, but she countered, blocking his path yet again. His nostrils twitched as he scowled down at her, chin angled in challenge.

“Not without answers.” Her spine straightened, though she had no doubt he could taste the fear seeping from her skin, permeating the cold dark air. It radiated off of her in waves; she felt them, hoping he would not prey upon it. Her father taught her that fear was a weakness to be exploited.

“Take the crystal." He pulled back the faintest breath, emerald met the sea of green and blue, his silence daring her to speak. The soft clicking of her teeth as she shivered tattooed between them. He whispered hoarsely, his voice betraying the swirling emotions in his chest. “You’re freezing.” He moved closer; Sarah fought the urge to step back. For a moment she considered making a mad dash through the trees to put whatever distance she could between them, but she held firm.

"And you’re stalling."

Before she could blink, he slipped his hands behind her head, pulling her closer. Warm, innocent lips met his with confusion, then fear as they trembled under his touch. He meant to make it worse, to make her loathe him; it was the only way to take her secrets— to keep himself, and all he ruled protected. But thea moment his mouth crashed against hers— hard, heated, demanding— his thoughts turned to mist. He didn’t simply kiss her. He devoured her.

Suddenly it was over. She felt his hungered stare, but dared not meet it, fearing what secrets her own would divulge. Swallowed in the command of his kiss, her veins still burned with curious fire. His lips lingered close, their warmth caressing her heated face, still in his hands. His voice thick with lust. “Wish me back, and you’ll get your answers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As I have said, I have many chapters ready and I want to get the bulk posted before I start working on the newest chapters. So, expect a bunch of chapters over the next little bit and then we will slow way down. I try to keep to a writing schedule but... LIFE
> 
> I love you all and I look forward to your thoughts... XOXOXO


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_The right words spoken.  
The maze comes alive.  
A prize waits at its core._

Days and hours passed; or perhaps only minutes. There was no way of knowing with any certainty how long she stared into the darkness, unbalanced. Her hands were shaking, as much from the cold as the sudden disappearance of the— stranger? conniver?— who vanished into the night with naught but a whisper left tumbling about on the edge of a breeze under the chilled, blackening sky. 

She was alone now— that much she was certain. Her pebbled flesh no longer sang from the very presence of his being; the pull that ached at his nearness seemed to merely simmer in his absence. Her fingers, fixed on her lips, white as alabaster, felt warm even as her face flushed. How dare he! she chided, though much too frightened to voice the words aloud, _How dare he—_ this time with far less gusto.

_The liberties he’d taken—_

Had she truly allowed him such? The question was absurd; of course not! How could she have allowed such things when in the depths of sleep or even be held accountable for her actions within a dream? _This is entirely his fault! **He** entered my dreams! **He** beguiled me! _

_He—_ was still a mystery to her. Everything about this man remained shrouded in shadows, cloaked under the cloud of his deceit and obscurity. He had refused his name— as well as the answers to her other questions— deliberately. As she thought, a distressing reality took hold, her nerves twitching beneath her skin— he had been sincerely, and gallingly obtuse.

It was much later when she finally made it into the quiet confides of her empty house, hiding behind the false sanctuary of her locked door, that she allowed her thoughts to wander far past the pale pretender and the peace of her fatherless home. 

Two weeks of freedom welcomed her with open arms and a warm embrace— two weeks without threats of pain and abandonment, without angry curses and false accusations of one kind or another. Her mask of contented serenity and love-honed gratitude could lie safely with the rest of her feeble secrets and treasures, waiting for its permanent return. Two weeks— to Hell with her dreams and the demons laying in wake, and the man who lingered within! This was to be her reprieve, her calm before the storm of marriage and fortune crashed upon the tattered and rocky shores of her life. 

Two weeks before her life would change forever.

**********

_Damn her!_ The crystal danced dangerously in his hands as he once again pulled the memory across its perfect surface. The surprised and frightened green eyes stared back in disbelieving horror, their innocence pulling him like a siren into the depths of a dark cavern he was sure he would never escape. “Damn her— and her eyes!” The glass sphere crushed to powder in the force of his grip.

“I thought I might find you here.” A low rumbled bass spoke from the far side of the room. His countless years of service had taught him caution, but he was far too familiar with his King to be frightened. Casually, he stepped forward, taking the seat across from his enraged monarch, and leaned heavily onto the right armrest, fingers curled under his stubbled chin.

The mismatched eyes rolled up from the sparkling remains littered over his back-crimson gloves, teeth bared. He did not try to hide his actions, favoring a melodramatic show; he put his outrage on full display. Drawing another three globes from the air, he juggled them, his speed and delicacy still impressive decades later— brows arched in arrogant fire, eyes dull— bored. 

Suddenly, he snarled, barreling each, one by one, past the salted-raven head on the other side of his expansive desk.

The man flinched once, a soft twitch to be out of the line of fire, watching, somewhat impressed, at the childish display before him. Intrigued, he relaxed into his chair once more; the hint of a curious smile twinkled behind his charcoaled, worn eyes. The bags beneath pulled at the scrunched corners. Though he did not look haggard, Emere Havron wore the face of a man twice his age, but his agile, if not large frame, proclaimed a different truth.

“You are my adviser— _advise.”_

“Alright. Stop brooding away in your private chambers— there are at least ten women who need nothing more than an invitation and they would strip bare in front of their own fathers if it meant a night with you. You have a castle full of guests for the Harvest Hunt, and you remain here. It makes one wonder why?” He rubbed his chin, “Unless you are impotent— I always thought you were compensating with all the glass balls and such.”

“I could bog you for that.” The king said with a light smile, “I should have done it years ago.” 

“Aye, you should have— only an idiot would allow such insolence.” He grinned, a wide, crooked smile, his butter-yellowed teeth unveiled under a thick, groomed mustache. “And you’ve never been known for your brains, now have you?”

“No, I suppose I haven’t.” He said, his demeanor suddenly crestfallen and distant. His words echoing, unwanted in the forefront of his mind: _You have no idea who I am, do you?_ How could she have forgotten— after all that transpired? He had known she would— she must— forget the labyrinth and its secrets— and his declaration in the ruins of her triumphant challenge. It had not tempered the hope that she might remember him— and all he had promised that brave and naive girl. Somewhere, hidden under the rage and callousness, wrapped firmly in the countless lies of denial and relief, hidden away in the deepest recess of his mind, _he_ had _wished._

With a deep sigh, and a sidelong glance, the King stared, poignant and thoughtful, assessing his friend. “What would you say to a King plagued by an impossible problem?”

“Well, that depends,” his head titled in contemplation, but his cool confidence never faltered. “How impossible? The Underground is entirely impossible, and yet here we sit.” He gestured his hands around him to the candlelit room, his expression matter-of-fact. “You transform into an owl— the likes of which are so elusive to our kind it is a near miracle. Impossible,” he said, making an absent toss of his hand, as though shooing an animal, “is a matter of perspective.” Emere leaned forward now, adding import to his words, his eyes full of delighted challenge. “If something is impossible— look through the eyes of another.”

Lifting his booted feet to rest on the edge of the dark, polished desk, gloved hands steepled against pouting lips, the king spoke. “Your eyes work, I’d wager?”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

“Then solve my riddle.” His pale hair fell against the back of his chair as eyes closed— he looked troubled. Were Havron in a more insulting mood, he might have remarked on his worn and tortured appearance, but was wise enough to chose prudent silence over its harrowing alternative. 

“A runner defeats my labyrinth and claims the prize. Years later the champion is dreaming of the thirteen hours— with no real memory of what happened, or who I am. So, how— how is one mortal defeating ancient magic?” He let the silence encompass them, hoping it would manifest as danger, not the quiet whisper daring him to act the coward.

Emere abruptly stood, moving to the sideboard that waited across the room, grabbing two glasses and the ornate decanter nestled behind it. The crystal clattered against the dark wood as he messily poured, leaving rich amber droplets littered across the glossy surface. Without so much as a nod, he tossed the drink back; never having acquired a taste for Goblin Whiskey, he grimaced as the burn died away, then poured himself another.

A gloved hand hovered over the waiting glass; he had not expected such a response. Truth be told he had expected a certain reluctance, and had even prepared a defense to prove his accusations and trepidation held some merit. It had been hard enough convincing himself that it was happening and was not, in fact, his imagination playing tricks. Any explanation he could fathom was as ridiculous and inconceivable as the blatant and impossible truth staring him in the face.

He had tried to pry a confession from her, ready to take action with whatever excuse she gave— but she had none. The girl hadn’t even recognized his face other than to name it among those of her dreams. Those beautiful eyes, that had once haunted him to near madness, had been so unsure, it filled him with an overwhelming sense of guilt the moment he pried his lips from hers. It had taken more than he knew he possessed to pull himself away from her— even knowing she had no idea who and what he was, nor the history they shared.

Perhaps he had pressed her too hard. His hand wrapped firmly around her throat could hardly be misconstrued as a gentle caress or loving touch. She had been frightened, not of punishment or guilt, but of _him._ It stung— though it shouldn’t have: he had only himself to blame. He had threatened with everything but his words— though he suspected his tone had done just that. In the five days since he left her breathless amid the trees and stars, he had come no closer to the answers he so desperately sought, and had only burdened himself with further questions— and reawakened desires. 

“What would you have me do, my King?” 

With a swig, the blonde finished his drink on a wince, “Observe.” A light burst at his fingers, the crystal glowing warm with the visage of the girl in the glass. His eyes focused longingly at the brunette staring aimlessly into the night, apprehension aging her bright eyes. Idly, he tossed the orb into the weathered hands across from him, the image disappearing into shimmering smoke. “Observe my champion, see what I have seen— then we will talk further.”

“I look forward to disappointing you.” Emere bowed, and strode to the door, a lightness in his steps; though he did not understand what plagued the king, he could taste the warning in the air. It was pungent, and thick; lingering in the shadows. He had no doubts the Goblin King was troubled— nor did he deny the theory of impossibility— but he refused to submit to it. There had to be an explanation for the madness and worry— there always was. If he had to dig with his bare hands into the dry, crusted earth until each nail was jagged and torn, leaving blackened buds in their wake, he would find the answer.

“Disappoint me?”

Emere grinned, a sly brow arched in delight as he left without a backward glance. Oh, he had every intention of proving this nothing more than rabid imaginings. He was too skeptical to give way to such a foolish notion, though he wouldn’t mock his friend’s concern— nor did he dare. The Goblin King had seen his fair share of unfathomable circumstances— but those were different times and Havron a different man. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen such concern over a mere idea: none had ever amounted anything of substance. But his king was no fool— an neither was he; if something impossible were happening, he was determined to stop it. 

**********

Five days.

It was a new record— though neither he, nor his wife had been keeping score— they were simply waiting for an explanation that hadn’t come. Blythe had never seen her so distraught, so very out of place in a room she could, on any other day, navigate blindfolded. Yet for the fifth consecutive day, Sarah was aimlessly disheveled. The fact that Blythe saw was miraculous enough, but that he took note of each day she drifted about in a listless haze of fear and aloofness only added to their concern. Whatever pride he might have claimed for his observations died, smothered under the realization that a perfect stranger, slurring and drunk to the point of delirium, would have easily noticed the girl’s silent distress.

Their relationship had changed over the years, Constance filling the void he could only hope, in his best efforts to mask for the briefest of moments, before it once again called out to her loneliness. He was more suited as her guardian, though he looked unassuming at first glance. His body was muscled and lean, housing a secret power seen by the rare, and unlucky few who crossed him— or her for that matter. While his wife was both confidant and comforter, mother and sister, providing Sarah with so much more that he ever could, he too wanted to help— to fix whatever he must to return them to some form of normalcy. 

Carefully, he set the massive crate filled with parchment and thin wood, atop the others in the small, airy cellar. Blythe watched as his wife place her much smaller box on the crude wooden shelves near the door. 

She rubbed her small hands into her apron, and stared about the darkened, cramped space with a soft smile, a hum trapped in her throat. “Yes, this will do quite nicely, I think. It is dark and rather secluded, there would be few interruptions— if any at all, and the noise from the shop would mask the sound.” She stepped forward, her voice warming, hands on her hips as she surveyed the dust-caked windows, “If the glass remains uncleaned, one would be afforded all the privacy in the world— and the crates are certainly strong enough to bear extra weight.” She brought her hand to her throat, “Oh, yes. It will be perfect.”

Blythe groaned as he stepped forward, surprised at his wife’s coyness— but delighted nonetheless. His heartbeat quickened from sheer want, “What were you thinking, my love?” He pressed against her back, arms wrapped around her, fingers tangled in the fabric of her skirt, another hand caressing the column of her neck.

“That this would be ideal.” She turned to face him, her lips trailing along his jaw, before their mouths met in a slow, sensuous kiss. Desire coursed through his body and he couldn’t help the rumble in his throat, as their mouths continued their dance, until suddenly, Constance pulled back, a coquettish grin stretching her reddened lips.

“What? What is it?” He couldn’t help but return her smile.

“I had meant this place would be perfect for your mistress.”

_“Mistress?”_ he asked, taken aback by the accusation. “I don’t have a mistress!”

“But of course you do— and this would be the perfect place for the two of you to be alone. That is—” A bright, toothy smile stole across her face, lighting the darkened room. “That is, if you can carry the metal beast down the stairs.”

“Metal beast? The press? The press is my mistress now? That cold metal thing, why ever would you think that?” Ensuring he sounded offended, he glared at her. “No, we are on the path to become mortal enemies— I would be more willing to bring a kilted Scot to my bed!” Constance covered her face to hide her boisterous laughter, as Blythe fondly kissed her hair. “You are a tease, my wife. If we didn’t have a shop to run, I would prove my point on these very crates, as you suggested.”

Constance lifted her face to his, her eyes bright. “Yes, well, Sarah is waiting upstairs…” 

The mention of her name turned his thoughts once again to the tormented girl under his roof. “Have you spoken with her?” he asked, his manner abrupt. “Has she told you what’s wrong?”

“I haven’t had the chance.” She shook her head on a dismayed shrug, confused at the sudden turn. “I was hoping she could come to me but, it has been five days of this— odd behavior. I’m not certain what I should do. Do I confront her? Or continue to wait?” Turning to the door as though it might have an answer, her shoulders fell as she sighed, her voice burdened with concern. The lightness they shared only minutes before vanished in a cloud of worry and concern. “Do you think it was her father or— or—” her eyes suddenly wide, mimicking the o of her mouth, reddening with the threat of tears. “The dinner party,” so soft he almost hadn’t heard, the memory crashed between them. “He _didn’t._ He _wouldn’t_ have— “

“Perhaps, you should speak with her first,” he cradled her head in his hands, bringing her focus back to him. His voice calm and reassuring, as his own worries began to surface. “I think I can manage the shop alone for a few hours, whether it be today or not. Whenever you feel it is best—” he said, with an encouraging nod, that was returned with equal measure. As she turned to go, Blythe caught her hand, pulling her once more to face him. “When you go— take as long as you need.”

**********

Her work lay forgotten on her small desk, the quill and ink-well remained untouched in the upper corner. Her attention was focused on the letter, which arrived only moments ago, by way of a small, but well-fed errand boy. The scented, ivory paper, sealed with sapphire blue wax, and the contents within written with such flourish it was almost difficult to read, sent Sarah’s nerves tumbling freely over the edge of her control. Admittedly, the events at the lake had taken their toll, leaving her nothing more than a hollow shell of her former self. 

The elusive stranger was troubling enough, but the unwanted missive from Alberta Rossen seemed far worse, in her already unsettled mind. He was not here— had not been in nearly a week, and from what little she understood of his parting words, it was up to her to bring him back. Wish me back, and you’ll get your answers. Taking a breath, she shook her head, shoving the strange thoughts away before they could manifest into something more. If she never sought him out, never wished again, the demon of her dreams would become a distant, terrifying memory.

The rustling of the stationary, far more expensive than any she could afford, brought her thoughts back to the present and the disquiet churning her stomach. Steadying herself, she unfolded the delicately embossed stationary with a groan, and sped through the letter, her presage blurring her vision, forcing her read the note once more.

_Dear Miss. Williams,_

_In regards to the dinner party, I wanted to apologize for my appalling behavior. Though I think my intentions were quite justified considering your family’s rather scandalous history, you are to be my niece soon and I do not wish to have any ill-will between us. The unfortunate status of your birth cannot be held entirely against you. I can forgive your mother’s shameful past and the terrible misfortune your father has made you endure. It is what any good Christian would do. A girl of your (soon-to-be) standing must be treated better, and since Richard seems intent on the match, I must take pains— I trust you understand. One can never been too careful allowing tainted blood into a family, but I suppose we all have a black sheep in our midst._

_It is with the family’s best interest at heart that I give a peace-offering and request that you accompany me into town to my dressmaker, and allow me to purchase you several new gowns appropriate for the station you are aspiring to, instead of the unfortunate state you find yourself in now. I must both applaud and chastise you for not demanding my nephew spend a shilling on you, however, ink stained dresses and threadbare skirts have never been the height of fashion, no matter how pretty a face. We can’t have a Lefroy dressing like a common light-skirt, now can we?_

_I promised my nephew I would take you under my wing and ensure you feel welcome while he is away. It is with his wishes in mind that I make this offer. My carriage will be at your home at one o’clock sharp. Surely, Mr. Tillens can spare you for one afternoon. Please don’t keep the poor coachman waiting. It is very unbecoming to be late._

_Until Later,  
Alberta Rossen_

_**PS.** Do wear something appropriate dear— we will be in public for quite some time._

Sarah read the note again, this time out of disbelief, the knot in her stomach twisting further as her eyes swept to the clock, perched cheerfully on the wall behind her workspace. Half-past eleven— her day had begun on the wrong foot. This was to be her family— her life— and there would be no escaping it. Perhaps it would be easier to bear if she loved her intended; but love was not a luxury she could afford, nor was it a risk she was willing to take. Sarah knew her virginal beauty was the only thing of value she had left, and, as luck would have it, she needn’t go to the streets of London or Bath find a buyer. It was the terrible truth she was forced to admit with every cutting, underhanded insult that pushed her to leave. Self-preservation necessitated her engagement, a fact that Richard understood all too well.

With a copper pitcher in hand, Constance walked merrily into the room, her steps light as she moved to the basin in the corner. “I think it is too nice of a morning to remain—” she stopped pouring the water the moment she caught sight of the crisp white letter crumpling between shaking hands. “Sarah? What it is? What’s wrong?” Setting the water aside, she rushed to the chair where Sarah fumed. 

Forcefully, Sarah thrust the paper into her hands, silently commanding her to examine its contents. Constance read over it quickly, her jaw tense as her breath hitched, “How _dare_ she!” Balling the letter in her fist, she cursed, “She knows he is away— she wouldn’t have sent it otherwise. What a horrid woman! Oh, Sarah, I am so sorry.” She leaned forward, her brown hair resting solemnly on the white hand gripping her own. 

Sarah hung her head, letting it land softly atop Constance’s, her tears rolling hot across her nose; it took every effort to keep her shoulders from shaking with the ire and grief welling within her. The hurt constricting her heart forced a gasp of pain and humiliation through her dried, dusty lips. “Oh, Constance,” she whispered, her voice thick with regret, “At times I _wish—”_ Her head shot up as her words echoed pitifully in her ears, her face suddenly white.

“Sarah?” The erratic movement catching her off guard, her eyes lifting to the distant and terrified jewels before her. She repeated the name, the response a distant and hollow silence. Grabbing the pale, soft-pointed chin, she forced Sarah’s attention back to her with a gasp.”Sarah, what is the matter with you?” The word filled with terrified emotion and curiosity, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” She answered far too hastily, the rickety whisper far higher than her usual pitch.

“What are you afraid of? Why can’t you tell me?” Hurt poured over each word as she studied the plaster-white face staring back at her. Her fingers tightened— Sarah’s mind drew back to the gloved hand that took her throat with cautious force and beguiling sensation. She flew to her feet with such speed her chair skittered back before clattering to the floor as she pushed away. 

Sarah stared as if in a trance. Her eyes wide and sharp; she was disheveled, unkempt; hair pulled haphazardly into a ribbon at the base of her neck topping a poorly laced stomacher and a wrinkled skirt. Blinking furiously, she cleared her throat, regaining herself once again, as though nothing untoward had ever happened. “Unless you have need of me, I must ready myself for this afternoon’s— _activities.”_

**********

Sarah slammed the door behind her, dropping the small parcel holding a pair of deer-skin gloves and a small assortment of ribbons onto the table with no concern for the expensive items within. Lighting a humble fire in the neglected hearth, she moved so her back was to the flames, leaning against one of the chairs surrounding a small, oval table. The warmth seeped wonderfully into her tired muscles, relieving much of their tension. Prying patched gloves from her hands, she growled into the cold, empty home that greeted her, as she tried to temper her rage, whistling loud as a forgotten tea kettle. “Wicked, vile woman!”

The fault was hers, of course; the letter made Aunt Alberta’s intentions and opinions quite clear from the opening sentence. Whatever pleasantries she had expected, or hoped for, were imaginary. The crone couldn’t manage a single page without belittling her— what could be expected of a personal encounter? Were it within her power, she would have declined the invitation, but Sarah had no other choice save to spend an entire afternoon, and into the evening, with the callous and demeaning villain.

The day had been an utter disaster. Alberta circled her like a wolf each time the seamstress pulled back the thick curtains to display a new garment or fabric, explaining in great detail her every fault. Each insult biting worse than the last, it hadn’t taken long before her tears became a permanent fixture at the brim of her eyes, a lump scratching her throat. Sarah learned quickly to bite her tongue. The old woman’s enjoyment of her discomfort was much too obvious, and she was determined not to give her any more pleasure than she absolutely must. 

Against her better judgment, she allowed her thoughts to wander, leading her down the dangerous path to the lake, and the man waiting in the shadows— never venturing too far, for fear of what her subconscious might do, or say. If she was, even in the smallest measurement, responsible for his sudden and unwanted appearance, Sarah would not allow his return. The memories and questions swirling wildly in her mind were enough to drown out the hateful and cruel words, hidden beneath the woman’s soft tones and false smiles.

With pleasure in her voice, the barbarous creature had expressed a desire for another outing in the near future, and Sarah could only nod in horrified agreement. Alberta’s cat-caught-the-canary smile solidified all Sarah’s fears, as she stepped frantically out of the large coach into the twilight. It took every ounce of strength Sarah possessed to maintain a shred of dignity and composure as she walked the cobbled path to her door. The woman wanted her to suffer, she was sure of it, and while Richard was gone, the task became much easier.

A loud banging broke her thoughts with a start, pulling her back to the empty kitchen that surrounded her, but she made no move to answer. The hour was late, and she was in too foul a disposition to accept callers. Glancing idly over the table, a frustrated moan curled her lips— she had forgotten her newly acquired, (and very much hated) bergère hat. 

She nearly screamed as another knock echoed down the hall. _God-in-Heaven! Will I ever be free of that woman?!_ Her eyes widened as she took in several steadying breaths, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth were sure to crack. The dragon could wait for a change, for Sarah was in no mood to indulge her further. She marched down the hall with aching slowness, every footfall solidifying her hatred for the hideous tam that brought the vicious beast to her door. Pausing to smooth out her dress as best she could, another knock echoed much louder than the first. Sighing in defeat, Sarah quickly threw the large door open, her voice dry and bitter. 

"Aunt Alberta, forgive me—"

Silhouetted by the burnt oranges of the setting sun, three men stared, unsurprised by her confusion, The taller of the them leaned heavily into the door frame, his lips revealed a brown, gapped grin— her stomach churned in warning. His voice was as oily as the thin, string hair poking from underneath a tattered, graying bicorne, "It ain't Aunt Alber’a, love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Still on the posting purge! Review PLEASE! PLEASE!


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

************

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_A beggar waits in the dark._  
The servant betrays his king.  
A lonely child cries. 

The smell was not alcohol or the filth that littered the alleyways and crevices surrounding the shops. Nor was it the musty scent of straw, horses and sweat that so often lingered in the countryside like a skunk’s sharp fetor. The distinctive pomade and musk clung sickly to his worn and dirty attire, burning her nose and reddening the rims of her eyes. If the man had not bathed in the potent oils and penny colognes, his overpowering stench may have altered—if only a bit— but the presence of unease and distrust would still cling to his person like a second skin he would never shed.

Silhouetted by the burnt siennas of the setting sun, three men stared, unsurprised by her confusion. The taller of the them leaned heavily into the door frame, his lips revealed a brown, gapped grin— her stomach churned in warning. His voice was as oily as the thin, string hair poking from underneath a tattered, graying bicorne, "It ain't Aunt Alber’a, love."

Cold, beady eyes crawled slowly from her hair to the hem of her skirts as his tongue slipped past rough lips, like a snake tasting the air before a kill. “But I’s can be anyone ya’ like— if ya pout those pre’ty lips o’yours.” One brow raised in approval, either of her trepidation or her figure— though she assumed it to be both— as he unabashedly gandered. 

Ice raced down her spine, prickling her flesh as a small, primal voice embedded in her mind demanded she run from the predator at the door. But her feet refused to move as she glanced between the imposing leeches, two of which watched her closely as though reading her thoughts, while the third looked on with disinterest. “You’ve made a mistake— I-I have no business with you, sir. Goodnight.” With as much calm as she could manage, Sarah pushed the door closed: the worn hinges moaning in protest— then stopped on a hollow _thud._

The door remained open.

Shaking her head in a pitiful attempt to ease the panic that threatened in the back of her throat, Sarah slammed the door, throwing her weight into the wood, but it had no effect. She grunted, painfully flinging her shoulder against it once more, her eyes watered from the effort, but it refused to close. Her gaze flicked down to the scuffed black boot wedged firmly between the frame.

The man cocked his head way one might speak to a wistful child demanding attention, a crooked, pursed grin setting his stubbled jaw. “That wasn’ very nice, now was it, lads?” His tone remained light; the threat in his dark eyes was unmistakable.

“Aye.” The shortest man grunted, his voice much deeper than Sarah had expected. Unlike his companions, he was impeccably clean, and to her surprise, well-dressed. Upon first glance, he appeared harmless— much younger than the others, only a few years her senior— but the glint in his eye as he pulled his hands free of his frock, laden with silver, proved her worst fear. “Perhaps we should teach her some manners—”

The blade caught her attention.

She dared not look away.

Both men turned to the last, a solid wall of muscle and ire, who stood back from the others in profile, hands resting loose on the belt wrapped snug around his thick waist. Unlike his counterparts, he had no distinguished features, being neither remarkably tall or short, fit or thin, striking or plain. Even his hair, curling beneath a navy, homespun tam, was a dull brown resting at his shoulders— he was entirely ordinary. At first glance, his behavior mimicked his appearance, but Sarah saw the lie. His back was too rigid, eyes too alert, surveying the scene around him, ignoring her— he was their sentry. A guard dog, bred to maim.

Three thunderous strides brought the beast to her door, his eyes hard and hollow; Sarah shrank under his hounding, towering form— though he was only inches taller. Her heart pattered in deafening applause at the fear worming its way to the forefront of her mind, chilling her to the bone. It became clear, perhaps a moment too late, that these men where here because of her father, and his absence was of little consequence. 

A large, calloused palm settled flat against the offending barrier that was the door, giving it a gentle shove. He was giving her a chance, she assumed, to stand aside and allow them entrance without fuss. Wanting nothing more than to keep them out of her home, Sarah instinctively pushed back.

So did he. 

The hinges screamed as he drove forward; the door bashed against the wall behind it, forcing Sarah to stumble back. She barely caught herself on the wall as the loyal guard dog stepped back, his hand still on the wood, as he ushered them in without so much as a sound.

The two moved past her. “Ain’t yous got a bloody fire in ‘ere?” the tall man asked, his nose scrunched in disgust. He leaned into Sarah, his tongue wetting his lips with a sheen of spit. “With the sum your father owes, you’d think he could warm ‘is ‘ouse!” His hand shot out, his rough fingers cupped the back of her neck, pulling her so their foreheads were inches apart. “I’s don’ care where the fire is— or ‘ow small— take us there.” He squeezed painfully, making her whimper, his glare sharp— then released her with a shove.

Too frightened to do anything else, she obeyed and led them down the hall and through the massive structure of her home. The kitchen was not warm, but the chill had become little more than a nuisance as the little fire swayed in the hearth sending thick shadows flitting against the stone walls, the light too soft to banish the demons lingering in the dark. 

The leader took his seat, giving a quick, knowing glance to his minions. Both men nodded and walked purposely to their places guarding the doors. The short man folded his arms across his chest, his back to the garden door, his glaring eyes narrowed. While his counterpart, the dog, remained at the kitchen entrance, his arms hanging loose at his sides, appearing almost careless. Relaxed. He hadn’t tried to intimidate her: he needn’t bother— she was terrified. 

Sarah remained fixed near the table. Her stomach ached, the constant churning threatened to make her ill, but she forced it down with a weak smile. “Sir, I don’t know what my father has done— or how much he owes you— but I can assure you he is not here.” Her words were small but sure even as she trembled with each breath.

“Not here?” The tall man frowned, “How convenient for him,” 

Her palms began to sweat, and she wiped them down the sides of her skirt. _“Convenient?”_ She whispered, her brow wrinkling, “He is hunting with my fiancé, Mr. Richard Lefroy. Per—perhaps you should speak with him when he returns.” Taking a long breath, she stepped forward, steadying her voice. Placing emphasis on the name that was meant to protect her. “Mr. Lefroy already settled my father’s debts— if you have further business with either men, then I suggest you meet with them. I am sure Mr. Lefroy’s solicitor would make an appointment for you, as I am unable to do so.” Straightening her spine, she walked with a false bravado to where the dog stood. “As you have no business here, I ask that you please take your leave.”

Pulling his hands from behind his back, the mongrel brandished his own knife. His face remained stoic as he stepped forward the blade poised at her stomach, the polished steel gleamed as the orange flames danced across it.

Instinct forced her backward. Her steps moving her away from the weapon, only to collided, with a gasp, against the table. Her hand flew to her heart, as she spun to face her assailants. The tall man remained seated at the head of the table, leaning forward with his hands clasped together, expectant. “Aye, Mr. Lefroy paid the debt— but Robert isn’ good with his purse. Always gamblin’ away more than he ‘as. We’ve been generous— your father ‘as ‘ad more than enough time— an’ now payment’s due.”

“I have nothing to give you.” She said, the cold seeping heavily into her flesh as she tried painfully to rein in her fear. Her nerves dying as he bared his teeth snarling, his voice low.

“You see,” he said, wagging his finger at her, “I don’ think tha’s true.” His eyes dropped to the small, untouched parcel on the table. He snatched it, pulling at the soft floral lid until it came free, the delicate paper crinkling at his touch. An insidious grin slithered into place as he removed the fawn gloves from their hiding place. “What ‘ave we here?” He whistled. “Aren’ these nice? Cost ye a pre’ty penny, didn’ they?”

Sarah said nothing as he stood, the leather clutched tight in one hand. “Now I don’ think ye stole ‘em— no, girl like you’s too proud to steal.” He caressed the light leather to his grim-riddled cheek, purring at their softness. His eyes flashed open to his hand, turning white around the gloves crushed between his fingers. With deliberate slowness, he brought his cobalt eyes to her; a lurid sneer danced in their depths, his words crawling around her in a scratched whisper. “Wha’ else did ye buy with a borrow’d purse?” 

Before she could stop him, his black-ringed fingers snatched the silver chain at her neck, his thick, ragged nails catching the tender skin of her décolletage. The rose locket, normally hidden between her breasts, pulled free as two pearls of crimson slid against the lavaliere. Annoyance crested the intruder’s lips. “This ain’ worth anythin’—” he cocked his head, his gaze incredulous. The chain pulled taunt, biting into her neck as she tried to lean away. Shivers raced across her skin at his nearness, the threat of vomit creeping up her throat once more. “Where is it?” he barked.

Her mouth formed the words, but no sound came. “I-I don’t— understand. I don’t have it— I don’t have anything! Please, Richard— Mr. Lefroy will return next week with my father. He will settle this, I’m sure of it.” Her hands flew to where he clamped the chain in a silent plea for release. Fear pooled in her eyes, the mossy green browning like algae on a stagnant, sun burnt lake. _“Please.”_

A flared nostril twitched at her whispered plight; his eyes darted to his companion, giving a stiff nod. All at once his hand opened, and he stepped away, Sarah felt off balance as the locket bounced against her bodice. She screamed as a hand dove viciously into her hair, wrenching her head back, her hands grappling wildly for purchase. Before she could topple back, another hand pushed painfully between her shoulder blades, bashing her cheek onto the table with a _crack._

The younger man, who had guarded the garden door, was now pushing his weight into her back. His elbow dug painfully against her spine, as he buried his nose in her hair, taking a deep, unhurried breath, his thighs pushing against her own. Sighing, he pulled away, his hand still firmly wrapped in her dark coiffure, her face pinned painfully against the rough surface. “I think she’s at least worth _half_ the debt,” the short man said, with a dark chortle. His hips rolling against her and he groaned in delight.

Sarah planted her hands, driving the heels of her palms downward as she struggled to straighten. The muscles in her arms tightened and burned the harder she fought, their strength quickly waning as her nails scored the table. Tears dripped heavily down her cheeks, splashing against her nose and the tabletop as she wailed in her struggle. Sarah was not weak, but neither was he. 

His iron grip loosened for a moment, and her head came up from the wood, her fingers shooting to his locked in her hair as she tried to pry them away. “Get a good look, gents! She’s ripe for the picking!” He brayed, bending her back further, forcing her to arch against him as her breasts pushed forward. He hummed his appreciation in her ear, before slamming her back against the wood. Her hands barely catching the brunt of the impact before her already bruised cheek kissed the surface once more.

Cold air pricked her calves as the heavy fabric of her skirts skimmed up the length of her legs. Her panicked grunts turned to bellowed screams as her thrashing began anew. Warm, coarse fingers tickled the tender flesh of her thighs through her homespun chemise, humming his approval with each inch revealed. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, as her efforts failed, and her dark reality took hold. The hand tangled in her disheveled hair tore loose, strands of her chocolate tresses ripping away from the root. She cried out as her head lifted from the table, eyes searching the room, begging her captors to leave her be. The leader stepped back, his hands resting behind him on the lip of the sink, an excited glow igniting his eyes with something she dare not name.

A flash of movement from the window at his back drew her attention. Hope flickered to life in the pit of her stomach. Sarah twisted her head, craning her neck to see whatever had distracted her from their vile efforts. A soft flutter and a streak of white darted past; her jaw fell open, as the white owl settled on the outer sill. Its head cocked as it peered inside. The beady eyes locked with hers, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled free, nearly unintelligible: “Help me! I beg you! Help me! **Please!** ” 

“No one can hear you, whore,” the short man whispered in her ear, biting her lobe none-too-gently before planting a soft kiss behind it. Sarah tried to pull away, only to be met with laughter. “I always did like a good fight. Bleeding knuckles always made the victory sweeter.” His palm slapped squarely against her arse and she cried out at the sudden shock. His arousal ground against her through the last layers of her skirt that had yet to be bunched at small of her back.

“Help me, damn you! _HELP ME!_ ” she screamed, her eyes searching for the bird still waiting outside, with its feathers poised to fly. _Get your master! Please!_ It must have heard her pleading— she hoped— for the foul took flight in one graceful jump, its snow white feathers floating up and out of sight.

She prayed _he_ would come.

A hand cupped her barely covered sex, and Sarah jumped forward, her stomach slamming into the sharp edge of the table, her legs locking closed on instinct. “He’ll never pay you! Lefroy won’t wed a whore!” she screamed roughly, the hands on her stilled, giving her the courage to continue. “I have n-no money, no title, no family name! If you do this— you take the only thing worth paying for!” She hated the words, even as she said them, knowing they were the bitter, undeniable truth. “If you defile me— he’ll never pay you.” It was a shattered whisper of pitiable honesty. “Your money or—” she swallowed hard, “or me… your choice.”

The leader moved in; a knife she had not seen before pressed lightly at her throat. He leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers, searching for signs of denial. “You’re ‘is fiancé— he’ll pay.” His rotten teeth gritted in unfettered anger. This had not been part of the plan.

Her head shook, careless of the blade, the words dark and bitter. “Richard Lefroy would never pay for damaged goods. My father can never repay you— but my— Richard would. He must.”

They were silent a moment, the weight of her words clinging to the air. The leader snatched her arm, his grip sharp and unyielding as he dragged her from the table, pulling her back flush against his chest. Her heavy skirts dripped back down her legs, as the tip of the knife moved to the damp spot behind her ear. “We’ll leave ‘im a message then, won’ we, boys?” His warm breath skated across her neck, before his thick tongue traced its path; his hips pushed firmly into her. She felt dirty in his hands— under his touch. The terrible culmination of smells swirled around her in a blinding fog of pungent filth. Bile rose to her throat, and it took every effort to keep from retching under his uncleaned fingers. Sarah could feel the bruises forming beneath his death-like vice on her arm— as though the weapon wasn’t enough to subdue her. He licked her pebbled skin once more— slow, and purposeful, like a lover. 

He swirled the tip of the blade across her neck, like a lover’s caress, dragging it lazily across the tops of her breasts and back to that spot his tongue hand just been. The knife pressed into her skin, pinching hard into the dampened trail he’d created. She cried out as he blew against the steady stream of crimson trailing along the column of her neck. It burned. Stung. “Tha’s for Robert— a lit’le reminder to pay ‘is debts. An’ a promise for Lefroy.” 

“As for you—” His chapped lips, like slithering scales, caresses the length of her ear with sickening slowness; the heat of his liquored breath felt like fire. She could feel the blood at her neck begin to drip past her shoulders, collecting in a warm pool along the small frill of her gown. “Can’ ‘ave yous forgettin’ what ‘appens if he don’ pay.” The sharp pain splintering her arm vanished, as he released her from his hold; a cramped ache taking its place. With acute speed, the leader moved back, the cold steel trailing to rest against the ridges of her spine. 

Sarah stood taller.

She jumped, the sharp point pushing into her back; then every muscle tensed at once in a weak effort to avoid the inevitable pain. Her breath caught. Eyes slammed shut as she fisted her skirts roughly in her trembling grasp. There was no pain as the metal slid down along her spine— but the sound was like tearing fabric as she was cut in two. She felt weak— cold. Dizzy. The room began to fade into blackened fringe, and she swayed, her head heavy. Aching.

She nearly fell when his hands grabbed her roughly, pulling at her shoulders. Her back felt strangely cold, then her arms. He was talking— she could hear his voice, but the sound was a garbled mess, like a scream underwater. Pain seared her cheek. Her head reeled back from the force. She looked up. The short man stood before her, raising his hand to strike her again. “Take. Off. Your. Dress.” 

Without giving her another moment, he reached forward, grabbing her sleeves, and jerked them down her arms until the entire bodice pooled at her waist. The two men lifted the dress over her trembling form, their eyes shamefully roaming her body. Awkwardly, her hands rose to cover herself. Arms crossed over her corset, gripping the short sleeves of her worn chemise. She remained covered by layers of underskirt and linen, but the leering eyes of her assailant made her feel exposed. Naked.

Humiliation burned her cheeks as she stood center stage. “Y-you’ve made your point. He— we— will pay.” Sarah glanced between them, waiting for any sign that they were finished. “Please—” her words died as her eyes locked firm on the window, where the lowly owl paced, agitated. Its white wings twitched, batting against the glass like a finch behind bars. Her heart dropped— the bird was alone. 

She was alone.

Numbing cold consumed her as the fear from only moments ago sat idly in the recess of her mind. _He_ had ignored her plight while his bloody pet observed her horror through the window. She hadn’t known why she thought he would help her. His actions were not those of an honorable man (if he even was a man) and most certainly not a hero. She had hoped he would prove her wrong, that he might be a champion for one shining moment. But even that small request seemed impossible. The world became an obtunding void closing in on her with every breath. They had her dress— and though Richard might not pay for a deflowered bride, Sarah was not so naïve to think they couldn’t ruin her.

“Sarah?” a familiar voice called, as heavy steps marched up the hall. “Sarah, I wanted— what is the meaning of this?” the man barked from behind, the hateful tone unmistakable, though laced with caution.

Sarah’s heart leapt— she sobbed in relief, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. He had come after all! _He had come for her!_ She turned, a smile hidden behind her hand. Five days had passed since she had seen him. She had not wished, and he had been absent in her dreams and she felt the loss. The threats and fears of the twilight had only served to solidify what Sarah refused to acknowledge, even to herself— she missed him; the demon with mismatched eyes and wild hair. 

He had been cruel. Tempting. Yet, in the days since he left her stupefied and breathless under the blanket of stars, he was all she could think of. His visage had consumed her wakefulness to dangerous distraction. Sarah did not know she felt about the mysterious man. Hatred and fascination drew a delicate line in shifting sand, and she couldn’t find her bearings on either side. But tonight he was her savior. He had come. He had come for her.

They had been talking— perhaps shouting— but she couldn’t focus on the words, too consumed by the emotions swirling wildly in her chest. Turning, heart trapped in her throat, swelling from spectacular and overwhelming gratitude, Sarah looked upon her champion. “Blythe?” The flame of hope flickered and failed, smothered by the proof that he was not there. He didn’t come. She turned her face away, that Blythe might not see the pain hidden in their depths— though with the sight before him he could hardly question why.

“As I said, we were jus’ on our way out. Weren’ we, lads?” The leader smiled at the others, seemingly undisturbed by the unexpected guest. “Sees for yourse’f— we ain’ don’ noffin’— an’ we won’ if the terms are met.”

Blythe blocked their path, his voice as dark as their intentions. “If you hurt her, I’ll see you all hanged.” 

Raising his hands as though he had done nothing untoward, the leech shook his head, “We’s only messengers, honest.” He made the sign of the cross, his gaze penitent. “You ‘ave my word, sir. She ain’ been harmed.” Tipping his hat, he pushed by, the other men at his heels, taking their leave. “We’ll be seein’ you!” He called over his shoulder before marching proudly out of the kitchen. 

Blythe and Sarah stood frozen until the shuddering clash of the slammed door forced a much needed breath. Her eyes remained downcast as though she were guilty of some heinous crime, her arms wrapped tight about her core, protective. He knew who the men were, what they were after and that, try as he might, there was little he could do to stop them. 

The same threats had sent her stepmother running to the countryside before the breaking dawn. 

He stepped to her, cautious, as though she were a wounded animal that might make a crazed dash into the night. His hands coming slowly to rest on her shoulders, “Sarah?” He was afraid to know the answer, but the question had to be asked. Her weary eyes met his as fresh tears streamed down her face. “Did they— did they hurt you?” She made no move to answer, only staring blankly at the buttons on his frock. He waited a minute more before whispering, “Did they touch you?”

She stood motionless, her expression distant, then, at long last, her head shook, infinitesimal but he saw. “I s-s-stopped— they didn’t—” her voice thick, the whisper stuttered. She took a long breath then squared her shoulders, “Richard would never pay a shilling were I-I—” A breathy chuckle, half-hearted and humorless pushed past her white lips. “My virtue and my dress were the only things of value— and they could only leave with one.”

Blythe didn’t laugh. The weight of what might have been settled heavily on his shoulders, aging him another ten years as his back hunched in unresolved worry. “Thank the Lord that I came when I did.” He said, pulling her to him in a fierce, almost sharp embrace, before thrusting her forward to look in her eyes. As though some great relief could be found in their depths. “If I hadn’t—” 

Sickening anger pooled hot in the pit of his stomach, he straightened suddenly, commanding control from the very air around him. Gone was the saddened and woeful thing of only a second ago, replaced with the strong man she leaned to far too often. “You can’t stay here.” He gestured to the stairwell with a slight nod of his head, his tone daring her to protest. “Collect your things. You are staying with us until Richard returns— that’s nonnegotiable.”

“I won’t argue.” Sarah moved quickly to the stairs, turning his way before she made the climb. “Thank you— “ she whispered, the depth of her gratitude making the air thick with all that was left unspoken. She couldn’t— dared not say more for fear of puncturing the fragile bubble holding her tattered nerves together. 

“I’ll only be a moment.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she refused to acknowledge the unwanted emotion. This was not her fault. Blythe knew it. She knew it. He would never think less of her after this night, nor would he spend more than a moment pitying her. He would direct all of his ire on her father, and spend the next week fantasizing every which way the man could be tortured— made to pay for all the harm his addictions had caused his poor family. Perhaps that is why she loved him so dearly. He was the brother she couldn’t have and most certainly did not deserve.

Without a thought, her eyes veered to the window; a much larger part of her than she cared to admit wished _he_ would be standing in the darkness— wished he had come. She hadn’t understood why she had called out to him— or what she had honestly expected should he have arrived, but now that the wish was made and he had failed her did she feel the sting of his rejection. But even as her eyes settled on the darkness where no one stared back, she _wanted_ to see him— _needed_ to see him— for reasons she did not fully understand. 

Only the night greeted her— and the strange glowing eyes of a lonely owl.

**********

Sleep eluded her, dancing far beyond her grasp in the blackened hours of the evening. The clock chimed on the wall; its melancholy bells harrowed in the first moments of the new day— midnight. She had not been lying on the coverlet for more than an hour or so. The realization was disappointing. Time was crawling at an agonizing pace. She need it to fly.

The longer she remained awake, alone and lying on the goose feather mattress, where sleep evaded her at every turn, she could do little else than remember. Much to her relief and utter dismay, her mind did not linger on the disgusting, vile creatures that invaded her home and threatened what little peace she had. Oh no, her mind mulled and festered over the man who had not made an appearance. 

Sarah did not cry— had not since her arrival at the Tillens’ home where she barricaded herself behind the door to her borrowed room. She could not bring herself to undress; instead she lay atop the covers fully dressed, wrapped in her mother’s faded red scarf, praying for rest to overtake her. The solitude was torture. 

Alone, she recalled the feeling of the knife on her skin, the way her throat burned when she screamed for help from that ridiculous bird. The sudden relief was so powerful, she could taste it on the air and feel it coursing through her veins like wildfire. It had consumed her in the breath between moments, before the chilled waters of reality crashed upon her to reveal the face of another, who had stumbled across the scene in error. Disappointment crested into anger the longer she thought of the man that teased she wish him back only to refuse her summons. Every fiber of her being screamed for him, begging the bird that brought him to fruition before, to do it again. Her hope has soared the moment the creature took flight and with each minute he failed to return her heart sank into a void of numbing pain. Why it had returned at all angered her as much as his absence. Her rage swelling in her breast, threatening to burst as she thought of the white creature watching her torment and humiliation like a poorly sung Greek tragedy. 

Forcing the thoughts aside, Sarah moved to the window, searching the serene country hidden under the starlit sky. The dark outlines of trees painted the horizon with their silhouettes, with a scattering of buildings and homes standing out against the pitch. They appeared out of place and foreign against the sparkling heavens. The single white spire of the humble church glowed under the waxing moonlight, like the halo, so often painted around the Virgin Mary. Beneath it lay the varying figures of new and forgotten tombstones in uneven rows down to the wall, lining the edge of the forest. She could almost see the crumbling ladder and the hidden path beyond the stones. 

_Wish me back, and you’ll get your answers._

The thought nearly threw her back. She would _never_ wish for him again! The beast ignored her desperate cries, leaving her to be slaughtered by blood-thirsty wolves in her own home! 

He wouldn’t answer her summons anyhow— tonight had proved that point, if nothing else. From his open disdain towards her, made plain in their first meeting, he was almost certainly enjoying the spectacle made of her tonight, reveling in her tears. How he would have enjoyed the way she fumbled over her words as fear threatened to choke her. Would he have laughed or perhaps assisted them in their unforgivable endeavors, watching as piece by piece she became a crumbling shell of her former self?

_You’ll get your answers._

The thought made her bold. It made her brave.Turning from the sill, before she could lose her nerve, Sarah wrapped her scarf tighter around herself, then threw her cloak over her back, and pulled up the hood. Silently, she opened the door a sliver, waiting for any signs of a restless household. If she were caught they might think her mad for wandering out alone after such an ordeal. Madness was not something to be trifled with— not with the Estate so near.

To her relief and slight dismay, the pounding of her heart was all that greeted her. This would be her only chance to confront him and she would be damned before she let it slip through her fingers. Cautiously, Sarah made her way down the servant’s path to the empty kitchen where she took a small lantern off the hook near the door. It took her several moments to find the matches, but once the fire burned behind the glass she fled, her unanswered questions pushing her forward through the cemetery and past the wall. She ran until her feet became unsteady and branches toyed with the lamp in her hands, until her breath grew short and a stitch burned in her side. Reluctantly, she slowed her pace, lifting the lantern to brighten her way, but it was of little consequence— merely illuminating what she couldn’t help but walk into. The brush grabbed at her: its hands finding those soft tender places just above her ankles, leaving pink abrasions on her skin, until at last, she stepped into the clearing.

With one slow, steadying breath, Sarah stood taller, her eyes fixed on the glassy surface as she spoke, the words strong, but bitter: “I wish he were here— _now.”_ There was a change in the air though everything remained still, but Sarah could sense it. She searched the line of the trees, seeing nothing. “Show yourself!” she called to the darkness. Her voice echoed on the water as she stepped forward. 

The words were greeted with a deep stillness that left her unsettled.

Her eyes drifted to the sky; the glorious stars filled the darkness with a chaotic order that put her more at ease as she searched their expanse for any signs of him or his pet. “I wish you were here! Now!” Her voice sounded desperate, and she felt the familiar pull of panic tugging at her heart. “Show yourself!” She turned staring at the void behind her, hoping. 

The seconds ticked away to minutes of screaming silence.

“I made my wish! Where are you?!” Sarah could hear the tears in her words, though her eyes had yet to shed them as she stood bereft amid the trees. Lips trembling, her face heating with anger and hurt. “Please!” The lantern lowered to her side, her eyes falling to meet it. “I wish—” but the words died on her tongue. 

A gentle fluttering whispered through the air. Her eyes flew to the branches where it watched her. That beautiful owl that had given her so much and destroyed everything within minutes. _“You.”_ Had a judge pronounced a death sentence, it could not have been uttered with less kindness. “He sent you? “ She stepped closer, the words punctuated with fresh tears. “He sent _you? Why?!_ Can he see what you see? Or do you tell him?” 

Her claims were ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop the words now that the dam had broken. “You _watched!_ You bastard! You bloody bastard! And he— he— sat by and did nothing! _**NOTHING!** ” _She spun to the lake once more, her shoulders shaking from the weight of her anger, her voice hysterical. “Show yourself you coward! **Show yourself!** ” 

Her lungs burned from her outburst, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her ears rang from the pounding of her heart. She breathed deeply, taking comfort from the crispness of the air, but her tears still spilled, splashing hot against the pebbled shore. For a time, a fleeting moment, no one could touch her here. No one would see her red eyes or blotched face. In that moment, free within the circle of the trees, she wept. 

Her eyes soon grew heavy as fatigue swept over her with welcomed warmth, her burden somehow lightened now that her tears had ebbed. He was not coming. He never would. Life would continue as it had every day before his invasion of her life. Soon she would forget the impossible man who had damned her.

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she turned, the lantern crashing to the earth with a metallic crack. The beautiful owl was gone, and there standing in its place, his expression thick with something akin to regret and hell-born anger, was the devil with mismatched eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You know what to do


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER NINE**

_A wish in vain._  
A gift to forget.  
A promise in silence. 

He was there. The thought was as terrifying as it was thrilling. No, it was far more than that. It was a dangerous and inappropriate gladness that bubbled inside her like the effervescent spring water physicians insisted were good for the health.

For a brief moment she heard complete silence: her spine went rigid, her heart skipped, confronted by his cloak-draped form, broad and tall— towering. He unnerved her— drew her— appealed to her on some level she could not explain. His presence made her feel safe, while all at once she felt off balance and unsure. Sarah couldn’t help but stare up at him, understanding neither herself in that moment, nor the wild, turbulent, emotions rolling about inside her like the charcoal-lined clouds of a storm. 

Taking a deep breath she dared to meet his eyes, terrified of what she might find in their depths. Sarah expected to catch him smirking; one side of his mouth pulled in amusement at her bane. He had mocked her once and there was nothing to stop him from doing it again. 

To her surprise— her relief— his brow furrowed in concern as he took a step closer, though he said nothing— but neither did she. He looked grave, an invisible weight resting heavily on his shoulders, the sight so different than that of the confidant roue she had met before. 

Sarah exhaled, forcing her apprehension down, unclenching her hands from the painful fists they had formed at her sides. Studying his face, her emotions spiraled; he was here, staring down at her with unwavering intensity that set her skin ablaze. Her heart was racing with fear again, but the closer he came, the straighter she stood, her jaw tight. 

He traced the line of it with his eyes, down the column of her cream-colored throat. His hand rose to follow where his eye led before he realized what he meant to do. A war waged within him, but he controlled himself with great effort. The monster inside quivered and roared, anxious to be out, to find those who had hurt her, frightened her, and destroy them. Were it that simple, he would have done it before he dared to see her again— but there were rules. True, he had bent, shaped, twisted and marred them, but never broken.

Very few ever had.

“Sarah—” Her name was a breath. A whisper. A question. It was barely a sound, but she heard it— so small and filled with so much distress it almost burst on the air. He wasn’t quite sure what had possessed him (though it seemed rather obvious in the hours after they parted) but he opened his arms to her, offering refuge from the tempest of her sorrows.

Crashing against him, Sarah buried her face in the soft linen and leather at his chest. Her hands grasped the wide lapels of his thick coat, clinging to him with all she had left. For the first time, she let herself weep without restraint—these tears different from those she had allowed herself to shed behind her closed door. “You never came!” she bellowed against him as his arms came to wrap around her protectively as her sobs grew louder. “You didn’t—” the sound died as she pulled back, her eyes round, expectant. 

It was his turn to speak, to fix what hope had been shattered in the small confides of her kitchen. _He_ needed to apologize. Explain. Atone for what he had done— for all he _hadn’t_ done.

“I know.” The words were weak. Useless. Wrong. Her eyes grew wide, lip trembling as her beautiful, tear-burned face wilted. For a fractured second, she simply stared, immobile. Dumbfounded.

Anger crashed in an icy wave, dampening her terror and panic and unreasonable joy: anger at his absence, at the men who had assaulted her— anger at her father, herself, and the circumstances of her life— anger at the way her heart lifted simply because he was there. 

Suddenly wild, she struck him. Hard. Her fists barreling painfully against his chest. He didn’t stop her. “I begged for you! I begged!” The pitch of her voice raised, the words a hysterical ululating rant. “I wished for you! I b-begged— begged for you and you didn’t come!” A piteous cry careened from her lips; he flinched as another blow landed. “You lied! You lied.” He had not known two words could be filled with so much desperation and emptiness, and he hated that he had any part of it. “You— you— ” After a breath she hit him again— and again. And again.

“He struck me— he _hurt_ me!” She choked on her whisper, gasping as she drowned on her sobs. “He _touched_ me! He— he— would have— but I stopped him, before-before— he—” her voice hoarse, the words tangling together. “You didn’t—” The crescendo of her wallowing mess closing on one final, sibilated note: “You said you’d come back— you lied.”

Each strike after landed softer than the last, until he embraced her once more, his arms pulling her firmly against him— not to stop her vicious onslaught, but to comfort where he knew his words would fail. His explanation would do nothing, save give her more reason break. “Shhh,” he murmured, “shhh.” Her body shook in the aftermath of her rage. “I’m so sorry.” He held her tighter, repeating himself. “I’m sorry.”

He ventured a glimpse down at the woman who brought him peace amid the chaos she caused, wanting to savor the calm that flowed through his veins like warm wine as he held her. A troubled breath caught in his throat, and he rebuffed the sudden contentment she’d brought him. He did not deserve it— not now. Not from her. It was selfish to savor the incandescent ardor of her presence while she remained dolor.

The urge to brush his lips across her hair flared with such power, he nearly choked on the image. Pushing the thought away, he stared out above her head into the dark. His blood flared: he was furious— with himself and the rules he was bound to follow— with the men that had threatened her. He had not heard their reasons, trapped outside behind the glass— but he could assume her father was once again to blame for her sorrows. He _hated_ him too. 

Instead, his hand traced the path down her hair, his fingers following the ridges of her braid to the base of her neck. He wanted her closer, though very little separated them. It was selfish— he knew— but he did it anyway, regret be damned! Sarah hissed, as he squeezed her neck, shifting away in an awkward, jerking motion.

“Forgive me—” He said quickly, stepping back to see her better, wanting her at arms length. Had hurt her. _Again._ “The knife— “ He had seen the knife push hard against her neck— heard her cry out. How could he have forgotten?

Sarah’s eyes remained downcast, “You didn’t wield the blade,” she whispered bitterly and closed the distance he had placed between them. His strength fed her own. For that long moment, she needed him as much as she needed his answers, his explanation. The first was attainable— she didn’t wish to dwell on the impossibility of the latter. 

When he stepped away, mastering himself with a visible, almost painful endeavor, Sarah thought her heart would break. His mask of repose slid into place to obscure the burning rage she knew she had not mistaken. “Sarah,” he rasped, his eyes locked on hers. He shook his head, and she felt lost, barren, already missing the connection her tears had created. “Bloody bastards! If— “

“But your weren’t there.” She whispered, bringing her hands to his forearms, wrapping her fingers around the midnight leather, his own resting firmly on her shoulders maintaining distance. The green of her eyes shone even under the stars, the hint of the moon illuminated the drop disbelief as it sank deeper in her mind. Her brow pinched, chin tilting toward the earth. “Did— did your bird tell you?” Her cheeks flushed, embarrassed by the absurdity of her question, but she didn’t recant. “The owl— ”

His head cocked— didn’t she know? Hadn’t she seen the transformation? He had assumed she knew. _If she did—_ his hands rose defensively before him, his voice calm, quiet. “Sarah, let me explain—”

“Did-did you see?” Her breath caught, her pale face loosing the last of its color. She gasped and stumbled back, an icy chill swept over her, distress clenching around her heart. “Or— no. No! You _watched?“_ Her small hand went to her stomach, as she swayed in place. “You w-watched.” Her clouded eyes searching the clearing before settling back on him, unseeing. Sarah felt ill, confused— afraid.

His silence damned him.

“You _watched_ them hurt me! Torment me!” She blinked rapidly as the weight settled upon her. “You saw him rip my dress— _oh God._ “ Humiliation stung her cheeks— she could feel the blush in her toes. Had he seen it all— the lift of her skirts as she was bent over a table, her legs on display for the heathens to lust after? The surrender of her gown to degrade her? Had he seen her standing in naught but her corset and underskirts? 

Had he enjoyed it? Had he wished they’d done more? 

She covered her mouth as bile rose to her throat, each question ailing her more than the last. “Did you enjoy watching me suffer?” she finally said, the usual melodic sound of her voice turned dead on her tongue. “Did you enjoy my humiliation?” Sarah tried to slow her frenzied pulse. Her eyes were damp but no tears fell; she was more enraged than frightened. “Do you wish they’d done more?”

“I want them dead for what they’ve done!” he growled, stepping closer, his lean body rigid, tense like a caged animal plotting its release. “I want them to suffer ten fold. Were this my kingdom, they would be flayed alive under a scalding sun then left to rot in the bog!”

**“You didn’t stop them!** You were there— and you let them touch me!” She stood on her toes, chin raised in defiance. “I stopped them— _me—_ not you! They meant to rape me, and you-you--” Sarah chewed her lip, her fervor diminishing in the night. A surreptitious grin pinched her lips, “Say what you will to assuage your guilt but the truth remains— you’re a coward.” She turned, grabbing her skirts, retracing her steps to the cemetery. Stopping abruptly, she looked back, her voice an eerie calm. “If you wanted to stop them, you would have.” The words left her empty, wounded. “My mother used to say that every lie has a mistake— _that_ was yours.” 

Turning Sarah fled into the forest.

She made it three steps, and he was suddenly— impossibly— before her. She shrieked, staggering back, as his hands clamped firm around her biceps steadying her. “I could do **nothing!** Do you understand?” He shook her, his eyes frenzied, a strange emotion rising to the surface. “Nothing!” 

“I screamed for you! I wished for you— you never came!” His grip tightened to something on the precipice of pain— an intense pressure, that reminded her of his strength. It only served to agitate her to further hysterics. “Let go of me! Let go of me! You monster— you _beast!”_ She spat in his face, a snarl on her lips as his eyes darkened, but his hands never moved, the pain never followed.

“You never _wished!”_ He glared down at her, his words a venomous bark as he shook her once more. “You begged, you cried, but you never _**wished.** ‘Wish me back,’_ I said. _**WISH. Me. Back.** ”_ He leaned closer still, his breath hot on her cheek, searing her skin. “You think me a beast?” he articulated, drawing out the word in a low purr. “A beast would not chafe knowing that when you leave him, you are being pawed at and wounded, and he can do nothing to stop it. A _beast_ would not plot your revenge, nor wish death upon your attackers. A beast would have enjoyed your torment, and relish your suffering— no matter how loudly you screamed.” His lips rested against her ear, and Sarah could not help but shiver at his touch. His words so quiet, she strained to hear them, “I have done neither.” He pulled away, only a fraction, but it felt like miles. “In my world, even kings are bound by rules.” 

It was enough to silence her, but not a victory: merely facts shouted in anger and panic. His words had been said in defense of his character, and his point had been made, but the pain in her eyes only made him ache— that she could believe him so faithless, so sinister, twisted his heart— leaving him cold, and hollow. He knew _what_ he was— _who_ he was. He could be ruthless, cruel— frightening. He was not a good man, but nor was he the villain she wanted to paint him as. 

Sarah looked up, meeting his strange eyes, shame and regret marring her perfect features. She believed him, though she could give no logical reason as to why. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of her soul, Sarah knew he had been honest with her. Whatever he was, whoever he was, she was certain of one thing: he would not hurt her.

It would be so much easier if she could hate him— if she loathed the very thought of him. God knew she wanted to, but that fine line in the sand was far easier to draw than it was to cross. If she made the leap to the other side, it would be near impossible to turn back. Hate was as powerful as any drug and could be fueled with the smallest kindling.

Determined to mend the bridge that had blackened in the flames, Sarah turned the conversation to safer ground. “Why must I wish for you?” 

Her question threw him off balance. He had expected more heated words and cruel descriptions. Truth be told, he had expected so much less from her, the thought made him pause. “Rules.” He said with a sardonic grin, then turned to the water, unsure of how much he was prepared to divulge. “I am the Goblin King, ruler of dreams and nightmares,” - _and the Labyrinth,_ he thought to himself, unwilling to travel that path until he knew more about her impossible dreaming and what had caused it. “In my world, I have free reign as any sovereign does, but here— “ he gestured to into the night, “here my power is limited to mortal wishes— and owls.” he said, arching his brow in amusement.

Quizzically, Sarah turned to the lake, stooping to grab a small handful of rocks. She toyed with one between her fingers thoughtfully. “King of dreams and nightmares?” She repeated his words softly to herself and did not look his way, fearing what she might see hidden behind his mask of indifference. 

Hesitation hung in the air, though it was not so much a surprise. She sensed, even in that short interlude of their first meeting, that he had depths like a rolling ocean in the midst of a raging tempest. Sarah sensed he meant his words, his title, as a warning of something deeper, something greater. But he was not ready to tell her. Not yet. What he had shared was of great import just now, some secret that shimmered between them and slid away like smoke. She tried to clasp it, to see it clearly, but the meaning dissipated, and she was left with the certainty that his words had revealed something she could not quite grasp.

So many questions swirled in dizzying disarray; he was so much more than she had expected, and she was so much less than he. The overwhelming thought to walk away and never look back whispered like a tempting siren in her ear. She wanted to give in, to turn this night into a terrible and distant memory—but a softer, more powerful voice, one she had not recognized in herself before, begged her to linger on the hope of more. “Are you— that is, did you make me dream of you? Is all of this your doing?”

“No.”

Her lips pursed, “Then how have I dreamt of you?” She peeked up through her lashes, grateful he wasn’t watching her.

“That, dear Sarah, is the very problem I am trying to solve.” He plucked a crystal from the air, dancing it over his gloved fingers, and she was again mesmerized by the grace and fluidity of his parlor trick, finding it hard to look away. “It eludes me at every turn. Like trying to catch fog in a fisher’s net.” The ball stopped, caught firmly in his hand. “You wouldn’t happen to know the answer, now would you? I would be eternally grateful.”

“I’ve never been good with riddles.” She said dryly, the ghost of a smile touching her rosy lips, even as her face flamed. “Owls are considered wise— maybe he can solve our problem.” Sarah could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing, only grunted back a laugh. They both stood silent until his sudden movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention.

In one quick swing, he hurled the glass orb at the turret jutting up from the still waters. Sarah jumped; the glass shattering against the stone, splintering into a million glittering shards that vanished into the water. Unease fluttered in her heart as she looked back, wide eyed at the man beside her. “I find it therapeutic,” he smirked, then extended his hand, baring another perfect crystal. “Though, I wouldn’t take my word for it. Try it for yourself— see if I am right.” One black brow arched as he offered her the strange glass. 

“I shouldn’t.” she said with a bashful shake of her head.

“Why? You want to.”

“No— no, but thank you.” Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, she yelped, her nail skating over the open wound hidden there. She brought her hand forward to discover a shining crimson smear across her fingers. Sarah could see herself trembling, before she felt it coursing through her veins. Her breath hitched as fear slithered, unwanted, up her spine.

“Sarah.” The gentle rumble of her name pulled her back from the edge of panic, grounding her firmly to the uneven earth at edge of her sanctuary. “Its alright,” he hummed, stepping in front of her, his boots splashing in the frigid water. Cupping her cheek, he drew her eyes up to his curious gaze, sighing as she leaned into his touch. He had not hoped, nor dared to think she would welcome his touch again; he was thrilled to discover he had been wrong. In that moment, he hated the gloves that separated them, and for the first time in his life, he wondered what had ever possessed him to wear them.

“Here.” he said, reluctantly pulling back to offer the crystal once more. “If it doesn’t make you feel better, we can try something else. Perhaps, I will bring a goblin next time, and you can throw him.” He chuckled softly, confusion written plainly across her face. “Don’t worry, my dear— they are quite small and rather resilient— it makes them very easy to toss.” A bright laugh rose within him and he did nothing to contain it; enjoying her odd and horrified look at his merriment. 

Taking the offered orb with delicate caution as though it would burst against her palm, Sarah looked to the lake, her eyes wary. She didn’t understand her lie, her hesitation: she did want to. Habit reined in her desires. Too often she had stifled her emotions to keep her father’s drunken temper at bay, hiding her rage and tears in the sweat of operose housework. Washing the porcelain table settings and delicate glassware her father so often made use of, it was easy to imagine the painted white shards erupting wildly across the freshly cleaned tiles, the sound of destruction echoing within the walls of her kitchen. Oh yes, Sarah took great joy in smashing the precious dishes against the floor within the safety of her mind, where he father’s wrath could not find her.

Sarah looked down, her distorted reflection frowned. Had her morose expression become the benchmark for her emotions? _Do I always look so unhappy?_ Squinting, her free hand came to trace the dark moons under her eyes, following down the curve of her cold-bitten cheeks to rest at the odd setting of her lips. They remained fixed in a slight purse, the edges turned downward in displeasure. Her chest puffed, as she jerked her hand away.

Her father was not here. 

The men who barged into her home, who taunted and shamed her, had not come because she was alone. They had come for her father— because of her father— and she had no doubt they would be back. The stranger of her dreams— _the Goblin King—_ was not responsible for what happened tonight. If she had never made her wish at this very spot five nights ago, she wouldn’t have begged for him. She wouldn’t have known. 

Robert Williams could have prevented the assault and near-rape of his _only_ daughter if he’d had a modicum of self-control. The last six years of her life were the result of _his_ failings— her home, her employment, her reputation— her engagement. Tonight would change nothing: he will still expect her to provide their living, pay his debt and marry a man who would feed and encourage all his addictions.

Her jaw clenched as her arm snapped back. With as much force as her overworked body could muster, Sarah hurled the beautiful ball directly into the target. It nearly missed, clipping the edge of the curved stones, but that little contact was enough to send the shards singing in every direction.

A smile, so quick she nearly missed the pull of it across her face, ignited behind her dark-rimmed eyes. He was right. She felt better. The sound had been enough soothe the wounds of her terror, but the image and the knowledge that she had done something so out of character, so forbidden, was a balm throughout her mind. Worried that he would find her reaction odd or inappropriate, Sarah looked to the beautiful man standing beside her with hesitation, then dared to meet his entrancing eyes.

He looked pleased.

Without asking for another, her companion produced one after the other, each shattering with a resounding crash as they met the unforgiving structure. She wasn’t certain how much of her temperament lightened because of his lingering presence or the sheer joy she found in destruction, but whatever the cause, she was grateful.

Her breathing eventually grew shallow, and she smiled at the exertion. Her arm was tired; a dull discomfort hummed at the juncture of her shoulder, but she did not mind. She welcomed the pain, however inconsequential, because for the first time, in a very long time, she felt at peace. Happy.

A smile bloomed, warm and inviting across her face, the evidence of her tears fading. The cold had lessened the puffed rings around her eyes, returning them to their brilliant mossy jade. This is what he had wanted, what he had hoped to see upon their next meeting— her smile, her happiness. It was dangerous, he knew, to pursue her— haunt her this way. Too many questions remained unanswered, and too many secrets were kept behind lock and key— but he pushed the thoughts aside; they would keep for another day. 

The silence swept between them, it was not unpleasant, but an awkwardness lingered on the edges, prompting him to speak.

“Many a crystal have died by my hand. Though I admit more have been lost to boredom rather than anger.” His voice was light, though neither looked at the other, too afraid to break whatever bond was forming between them. He studied the lake and the darkness that surrounded them, then turned to her, flashing a kind—sincere smile. Despite everything— her fear, her breathlessness, her pain— that smile touched a place inside her, making it crackle and flare like a spark roused to flame.

“I scrub forgotten rooms and wash unseen walls.” A soft laugh puffed past her lips as she smiled, braving to look at him. “What a pair we make— you make messes in your agitation and I clean. Perhaps we should be bored together— for practicality, of course.”

“Of course.” He had not expected an answer and found himself delighted at just the sound of her voice. “I am certain my staff would thank you.” Then it was back, that warm silence that rested gently against someplace he had long forgotten, but sorely missed. He couldn’t name it: the emotion that took up residence deep within him filling voids he hadn’t known existed. This girl— with her strange dreams and pitiful tale— this mortal that made a wish to the wind and called to him in her darkest hour— was something all-too-familiar and altogether new. He couldn’t explain the effect she had on him, only that he craved more of its rich, fulfilling taste.

Her voice was soft, not the whisper of fear, but the hushed tones of contentment and a trace of concerned disquiet. “Are you worried?” Her arms wrapped, again, around her middle, “If you aren’t responsible for my dreams— “

“Then who is?” He finished for her, his expression grim.

“Yes— “ she whispered, suddenly unsure, “Does that frighten you? The not-knowing?” Her eyes, that could tell him more than any of her words, remained locked on the glassy surface before her. He could sense her trepidation— her fear— but he would not fuel it.

“I am curious.” He stepped behind her, to the discarded lantern resting amid the grey stones, a spider-vein crack sprawled across a single pane. Opening the small door, he blew slow breath and a flame danced to life once more. “I am very curious why you are dreaming of me, but I am not worried, nor should you be.” He stepped forward, his chest only inches from her back, his warmth seeping through her many layers to scald her in delicious heat. “What harm ever came from a dream?” His soft chuckle purred in her ear, as she stood breathless before him.

Sarah couldn’t help but smile. She could feel the delicate line shifting in the sand, pulling her to an edge was afraid to find. What happened when she did? Would she be brave enough to cross or run screaming to the other side where black emotion festered? 

Whispering, she dared face the question that itched at the back of her skull. Her voice was soft as the words tumbled free, “If I _had_ wished for you—” her breath caught, her eyes shut painfully tight, “w-would you have stopped them?”

“Yes.”

Her flesh prickled at the force of that single word. Her heart was about to beat out of her chest. She knew there was more hidden in that single sound. He leaned closer then, almost too close. The cuff of his trousers brushed against the hem of her skirt— the small contact was enough to steal all the air from her lungs. Still breathless, his long arm came around her— but still not touching— holding the cracked and forgotten lantern. Sarah looked at the proffered gift and slowly reached for the dark metal handle.

His fingers brushed hers as she took the light, and for a brief moment, surprising herself, Sarah wished his gloves hadn’t been there. For a moment, one that seemed longer than the actual passage of time it encompassed, they were bound by this simple act of mutual touch. An inexplicable energy flowed between them, reigniting the coil of heat in the pit of her stomach. And then, the moment passed. Sarah tried to regain her bearings before he could guess the strange effect he had on her.

She blinked, and just as he had been five nights ago, he was instantly before her, framing her face in his hands and dropping his forehead to hers. Without her mind’s consent, her fingers wrapped around his and her eyes closed once more— swept away in the peaceful connection that lingered taunt between them, shining like dew in the morning sunlight. He moved, only just, his lips pressing soft and warm against her temple, the act almost reverent. He leaned back a fraction, a breath; his long fingers drew faintly, slowly along her cheek, and across the curve of her chin. A pained groan swept between them as he pulled back, and Sarah wasn’t certain to whom the strangled sound belonged.

He cared for her.

The thought had come to her between one breath and the next, the moment his fingers had brushed her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw as if it were delicate glass work. Her heart leapt, her face flushed red-hot. He would not press his palm to her face, as though he were afraid even that small touch might shatter her into a million pieces, if she did not matter at all.

Her eyes flashed open as his hand slipped to her elbow, and he stared, searching her face— there was a wealth of meaning in those captivating, inhuman eyes, but her mind was too fogged to discern what it might be. The only thing she could be certain of was the pain, thinly veiled, etched within them. 

“I’ve brought you a gift.” he whispered, his words dark, flat. The tone of his voice felt wrong— the hairs on her neck raised in anticipation, her skin prickled with uncertain awareness. Without releasing her, he brought his free hand near her face: a crystal balanced precariously on the tip of his skilled fingers. Her brow creased. “A crystal. If you look into it, it will show you your dreams, and help you forget.” 

Sarah tried to step back, but his grip only tightened on her arm, holding her fast. Her eyes fell to the crystal. It looked the same as all the others she had destroyed tonight, but this one _felt_ different— was different. _Forget what— him? Tonight?_ Her thoughts danced slow and calming in her mind as she stared down at his supposed gift. _Forget—_ the word engulfed her in with a promise of peace and calm. _Forget—_ the sensations felt familiar: slow and gentle, unfurling something within her she wanted, but was just out of reach. _Forget._

Her day had been tedious and her night a terrifying disaster. She hated every minute of it— except now. This small, stolen moment under the sparkling starlight stirred a place inside her she hadn’t know existed— or had completely abandoned. If she forgot the mortifying events in her home, she wouldn’t remember why she had wished for him—or the alluring safety of being enfolded within his arms, the gratifying destruction of those fragile glass orbs, and the smile she was certain had been meant for her. 

Walking away with no memory of this night and all that had transpired would mean walking away from the first person (save for Blythe and Constance) that made her feel important— _wanted._ In the few stolen moments between the fear and worry, the hesitation and anger, he had managed something her fiancé had scarcely accomplished. 

She did not want to forget; she wanted to remember.

Softly, she tugged her arm away from him, and he released her. His mask of indifference replaced with one of questioning anger— one might dare to call it torment— as he watched her with unwavering intensity. She swallowed unsure of what to say, “It is very late— or early I suppose.” A small, gentle smile pressed her rosy lips, “I must go— b-before they wake and worry where I am.” She stepped back from him, but did not turn away, her eyes expectant. Hopeful. _Ask me to stay._

The thought startled her— scared her. He was an enigma shrouded in darkness. She had not missed the vagueness in his answers, nor the glint of dither in his haunting baritone as he spoke. Sarah had no reason to want him to stay— _oh, but you do,_ her conscious crooned, and she prayed he hadn’t heard her sharp intake of breath. 

He heard, but remained silent. The King couldn’t conceal the curious, if not dumbfounded look smeared across his face. Once again she had refused his gift to forget, even when it would lessen the pain and heartache he knew raged within her. He had offered it as reprieve— refuge from the storm, and she rebuffed him all the same. He wasn’t angry— far from it— he was bewildered, bewitched, by the mortal watching him, her expression serious, but lacking any form of the resentment he had so callously earned.

Were he a mere man, he might not have heard the startled noise, nor glimpsed the keen flicker of awareness that passed before she could blink it away. But he _had_ seen, and he knew what it meant.

This was her goodbye.

He could feel the words hanging unspoken between them. She was drawing the courage to say them aloud, bracing for whatever reply he might give. _Will she think of me? Miss me?_ He wondered in the spaces between the seconds as he watched her teeth worry the corner of her lip, her eyes never lingering on his person too long, before darting to the ground She still feared him— that was good he supposed. If she feared him it would be easier for her to walk away and never look back. It is what he had wanted initially, wasn’t it— to have her dreams stop and all memory of him forgotten? 

_Careful what you wish for…_

Sarah’s head bobbed slightly, her hand curled in the fabric of her cloak, the other still holding the newly lit lantern. The soft yellow glow illuminated her skin, as the shadows kissed the curve of her brow and down along the straight edge of her nose, sweeping under the line of her chin. He had never seen anything so alluring, so perfect, as she was in what he _knew_ were their last moments, and he couldn’t help but study her. To take his fill of her before he lost her— the thought left a strange hollowness in his chest as he watched her turn on a sigh and slowly slip into the night. 

To his surprise, she stopped before the line of the trees, looking back over the delicate line of her shoulder; he couldn’t place her expression, but he knew what it meant. Here it came, the single word that held so much power, so much meaning: _Goodbye._ He hated the word and all that it promised, the thought of it on her lips. He had always cautioned the importance of words (those used for wishes especially) and not for the first time, and he supposed not the last, he felt an overwhelming hatred for them and the power they held. She was within his reach by some unforeseen reason and because _he_ failed to explain the rules they both had lost the game. He for the second time. Tonight he would lose her the moment she uttered that horrid, unwanted word. 

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If ya like it then ya should'a said somethin'! If ya like then ya should'a left a comment!


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TEN**

_A toying glance._  
A step too close.  
A piece of cake… 

_She screamed as a hand dove viciously into her hair, wrenching her head backwards. Before she could topple, another hand pushed painfully between her shoulder blades, forcing her onto the table with a crack. The young man drove his elbow painfully against her spine, groaning as he leaned close, nuzzling her hair. “I think she’s at least worth half the debt,” he said at length, grinding his arousal against her backside. “Get a good look, gents! She’s ripe for the picking!” he brayed, lifting her from the table, forcing her to arch against him, her figure on full display. Humiliation colored her cheeks—her tears burned a hot trail, dripping from her jaw._

_She cried out begging him to stop, but her words fell on deaf ears. There was nowhere to go—she was no match for his strength nor their numbers. Her skirts were tossed over her back, as warm, coarse fingers tickled the tender flesh of her thighs through her homespun chemise. The fist in her disheveled hair tore loose, ripping the strands from the root._

_His hand continued its exploration, cupping her barely covered sex. Screaming, Sarah jumped forward, her stomach slamming into the sharp edge of the table. “Stop! Please!”_

_The short man moaned in her ear, biting the lobe before planting a wet kiss behind it. “I always did like a good fight. Virgins are a bore otherwise—bleeding knuckles and tears always made the release that much sweeter.” He rubbed against her once more, between the thin, worn material. Laughing low in his throat, he cuffed her squarely on her arse._

_Yelping at the sharp pain, the dam holding her tears at bay suddenly burst. She wept openly, sobbing into the wood, before lifting her eyes to spear those of their leader. He was braced casually against the edge of the sink. She did not need to look at his trousers to see how much pleasure he took from her humiliation—his wicked sneer was evidence enough._

_A flash of movement from the window caught her eye._

_A soft flutter and a streak of white darted past; her jaw fell open as the white owl settled on the outer sill. The beady eyes locked with hers—hope flickered to life in the pit of her stomach, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled free: “Help me! I beg you! Help me!”_

_**Say your right words.** _

_The voice had come from the depths of her mind, surrounding her in a velvet timber, too unique not to be familiar. Her panic surged at his immediate refusal. “Please! For God’s sake! Help me!”_

_**Say your right words, Sarah.** _

_Though she could feel the reverberations echoing around her skull, her eyes remained fixed on the strange fowl pacing at the window. “Please! I don’t understand—” she wept as a thick tongue licked at her neck. The terrible culmination of smells swirled around her in a blinding fog of pungent filth._

_“Don’t look so disgusted, pet,” the villain sneered. “You’ll be wishing for—”_

_**THE RIGHT WORDS!** _

_“I—I—still don’t—” she stammered, her mind fuddled in fear and panic. “I— “_

_**YOUR WORDS, SARAH!** _

_The roar of her name pulled her from the pit of darkness—suddenly his meaning crystallized, the memory clear and strong: Wish me back._

_So she did._

_The window panes began to rattle, vibrating with unknown force. A flash of blinding light flooded the room. The glass burst, the tiny remnants exploding into the room. Her eyes closed on instinct as she tucked her chin to her shoulder. The air pulsed with an electric fury, moments away from ignition._

_He was there._

_Relief so strong it was almost painful capsuled her within its warmth, securing itself to her nerves before they frayed beyond all hope of recovery. He had to be standing near the window, near the leader, but she refused to open her eyes—delirious in her terrified state._

_A howling cry pierced through her thoughts, pulling a startled whimper from her lips as the vice in her hair released. Fear paralyzed her newfound freedom, and she could hardly think to run, least of all stand. Her muscles became aspic, her body pooling in a heap under the table. The gruesome noise bounced around the room, its intensity never changing, and for a moment she marveled at the strength those lungs must possess to maintain such a scream._

_Then, as horrifically as it started, it stopped—accompanied by ragged, wheezing breaths. Sarah was startled to realize hers were mingled in the chorus of the others._

_Crunching underfoot alerted her of the approach before his glorious voice breached her panic. “Sarah, you’re safe.” Her head shook vehemently, eyes still screwed shut, protesting his declaration of sanctuary. “Sarah.” His voice was soft, comforting._

_“You came!” Flinging herself into his arms, she wept openly into his chest; the glass shards digging into her knees was little more than a nuisance at the back of her mind._

_He welcomed her, pulling her closer, pushing the air from her lungs as he crushed her against him. Neither seemed to care as they remained motionless on the cold, unforgiving floor._

_A loud groan, more closely resembling a whimper, pulled them both from the peaceful comfort of the embrace—he with a murmured curse, she with a gasp. The king peeled himself from her person (or perhaps her from him) and made to stand, bringing her up with him. Sarah breathed a heavy sigh as he draped a protective arm about her with a reassuring squeeze, his nearness repelling the suffocating fear waiting in the shadows to claim her._

_Bodies lay helpless on the floor, simpering, hands wrapped protectively around heads and torsos as if their limbs might shield them from the pain._

_“Wait ‘til I get my ‘ands on you!” The leader rasped, pulling himself onto all fours with gritted teeth. It would seem he had not been nearly as incapacitated as his companions, neither of whom made any effort to stand. Inhuman in their size and filled to the brim with palpable hatred, his eyes shot daggers, as though he might be able to strike her with that venom alone._

_Sarah watched the crazed man attempt to stand. He was failing rather miserably, his body weak. Her hand fisted at the broad chest she was boring into, nails sliding against the intricate leather as if she might disappear into the armor altogether._

_“Here,” said the King, “a gift.” His sharp brow rose at his own amusement while hers pinched with unanswered questions. A crystal rose to view. Pulling her hand away from him, he placed the globe in her palm, his lips pulled in a dark smile._

_Sarah looked from her hand to the man now hunched over—only his feet and fingers touched the stone, and his eyes were narrowed to wicked slits. He was watching her. The man leapt forward, growling. His arms stretched forward, his hands forming claws meant to snatch her from where she stood._

_Sarah screamed._

_The crystal fell._

_The orb cracked against the man’s back, melting into the ruddy fabric of his frock with a sizzle as he landed at her feet. Thin lips ripped open on a silent scream before the body burst into translucent white flames that cocooned him in supernatural heat. An instant later, the two companions, still lying on the floor where they fell, began to scream and retch in unison._

_Sarah savored the sight before her: every moan, every scream. She enjoyed their suffering—her full lips curled into a sneer. Oh yes, she enjoyed this—enraptured by their heinous shrieking as they writhed in agony. Her smile broadened as they each begged for death._

Jolting from the bed as though the hounds of Hell were in the feathers themselves, her hands trembled as they clutched her breast in an effort to soothe the nightmare from her soul. Burning hatred coursed through her veins as her eyes closed to gather her thoughts. She could almost taste the ash of the fire consuming her mind as the clock sang its fifth hour.

She would get no further rest this night.

**********

“Do you honestly mean to keep me under lock and key for the next six days?” Sarah hissed, reminding Blythe of a wild feline, not that he would voice such thoughts given her current mood. He watched as she continued to pace back and forth in front of him, her aggravation threatening to become a permanent fixture in the floor. Sleep-deprived eyes shot to his wife, filled with ire and pleading. “Constance, please, tell him how unreasonable—”

“It is only a week, Sarah. No need to be dramatic. We are not jailing you, despite what you think,” she said demurely over the teacup nestled between her hands, elbows perched unapologetically on the table. “No one is saying you cannot go home—we are only asking that you spend the evening hours with us.” Smiling, she placed the cup on its saucer, glancing to her husband in acknowledgment, determination settling in her soft voice. “We are well aware of what your father will do if you don’t attend to your chores.”

Giving a pointed look to the dejected woman before her, Constance sighed. ”Though I don’t see why I cannot send Henry or even Poppy in your stead. They are paid to maintain my home, and more than capable to manage yours if you’d let them.” Rolling her eyes, her hand rose, silencing the girl’s protests. “I know, I know—your father.” Blue satin clad shoulders drooped. “I don’t like the idea of you alone in that house.” She paused, smiling wanly, “Is spending your evening hours in our company so appalling?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” Blythe spat, having grown tired of her foolishness, “and when your father and Richard return they can sort out this mess—you’ve been through enough.” Blythe stepped forward, reaching to clasp her chilled hands in his. “We worry about you, about your safety.” His warm eyes smoothed the edges of her irritation—until he opened his mouth once more and promptly stuck his foot in it. “Lord knows they won’t.”

“Blythe!” His wife gasped.

“Can you deny it? It is no great secret that Robert is a gambling bastard, and Lefroy has done very little to protect her.” His voice grew thoughtful, “Curious, is it not, that the very evening both your father and fiancé leave on holiday, three men arrive at your door demanding an audience?” The grip on her hands tightened, his eyes turning black. “God only knows what would have happened—” Blythe shut his eyes, pushing the unwanted thought away. “We would never forgive ourselves if something happened to you. Sarah, please, if not for you, do this for me—for us.”

She agreed, of course, and dropped the issue. What could she say without adding fuel to the flames of their well-founded concern? In truth, she had no desire to return home.

Yet there she sat in the garden, the layers of dirt caked in a black ring around and beneath her nails as a sure testament of a job well done. Despite the sweat that dampened her brow and the healthy pink flush to her cheeks, the air carried a cold promise of the approaching winter. The repetitive plunging of her fingers in the dampened, icy soil left them glaring red and achingly numb. Sarah sat back on her heels giving her hands a much needed rest as she admired her handiwork of freshly—though most certainly—over-worked soil. The garden hardly needed tending—the humble reaping had been harvested; the root cellar was full but certainly not bursting. The dirt needed to be turned, but it could—and usually did—wait until after the winter, but idle hands…

_Or idle minds,_ she chided, as she curled and unclenched her fingers to bring life into the stiff joints. For three days, she could think of little else save for that terrible dream and the illusive stranger nestled within. Despite his deeds in the bounds of her subconscious, she knew so little of the man she saw (in one way or another) every passing day. It was a wonder so much of her time was wasted thinking of him, when she possessed only a small handful of memories.

_You miss him._

The idea came unbidden and crooned, startling her. “I most certainly do not,” she corrected, rolling her eyes.

_You wish he were here._

Sarah shook her head as though she could clear it of any such notions. Reluctant as she may be, she would admit to missing the strange ameliorating effect his company bore, but she did not wish for him. That would be ridiculous—she hardly knew him. He had been a dream until a week ago: an enticing and unattainable imagining nestled harmlessly inside her mind. Perhaps that’s why she allowed herself to daydream. He was something she could never have, and it was easy to let fancy run free when there was no risk, no possibility of anything becoming real.

Except he was real, and she hadn’t stopped thinking of him—even when she knew she should.

But thinking and wanting were not the same. Sarah did not want him. Nor did she need him. There was no reason for her to call out—to wish. She was under no threat, in no danger. They weren’t friends. She could think of no one she knew less, and her caution of him had not yet abated, not fully.

_And still, you miss him._

An invisible thread seemed attached to any—all—thoughts of him, The Goblin King, pulling taut in his absence. No matter how many times she recited her protestations in a mantra of whispered denial, even she could not convince herself of their truth: she did miss him, if only a little.

“Ah!” She threw her head back, groaning. “I don’t really miss him—I just don’t want to be alone is all,” she assured herself with a huff, rising on wooden legs and wiping her palms against her apron. Strutting to the bucket resting by the rear door, Sarah snatched the worn rope handle and made her way to the small pump at the end of the garden row.

Though better than a well, the little pump was far from perfect. The lack of proper maintenance made it as difficult to use as hefting the large pail back and forth. The rusting arm stuck and screamed as she pulled back and groaned as she pushed all her weight against it to move it back down. It was an arduous task, testing both the strength of her patience and that of her body, but every day she managed it, some with greater effort than others. Perspiration that minutes ago only dotted her brow now trickled facilely along her temples, matting the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Sarah did not bother wiping it away, and instead she bent to retrieve the water-soaked bucket. The bite of the coarse handle bit her palm, but she ignored it, letting the sheer weight of the nearly full bucket keep her wandering thoughts at bay.

The soft cry of a bird echoed in the air, and before she could help it, Sarah turned, searching the heavens on bated breath, hoping to see a streak of white soaring against the azure. Butterflies swarmed her stomach and fluttered in her pulse. It can’t be— her eyes locked on the fowl as it descended, squinting into the brumal afternoon sun. Water splashed against her earth-stained clothes, pooling in an icy puddle beneath her feet. Her legs propelled her forward in an odd mix of tenacity and apprehension, racing to the far broken gate to better see the incoming beast.

Sarah froze in her tracks, wrapping all ten fingers around the splintering wood of the fence. Rising to her toes, she watched as it slowed, landing softly on an open branch, framed by the knotted hands of the barren tree. Her disappointment crested: where she wanted a flat face and cloud white feathers, there was a round face with bark-toned wings, speckled with black and umber.

_Why would he come? I’m hardly in any danger—I’ve made no wish—_ Sarah lectured, moving morosely to grab and refill the bucket she so carelessly spilt. “Just was well,” she grunted, fighting the rusting joints once more, her own arms cramping in protest. _What would I even have said to him?_ Her eyes rolled as she replaced the now-full bucket by house, a wave of unease washing over her.

In three days, she had yet to cross the threshold, never mind the fact that she had not come home until this afternoon. Now she was doing every task imaginable so long as it kept her outdoors. Very little was left to be done, save for tending to the chickens, which unfortunately, was just as daunting as entering her kitchen.

What a strange turn life had taken when a hobbled chicken coup seem somewhat preferable to her own house. Sarah hated chickens—or more accurately the chickens hated her—but she tended them carefully, knowing full well what would happen were she to lose one. They had been forced to sell the barn along with most of the profitable land, leaving a mere half acre and a small carriage house, that after the horses and coaches had been pawned, left a perfect shelter for the egg-laying devils that now demanded fresh hay.

Much to her relief, it was a rather simple task—sifting and laying fresh straw—and in under half an hour she was finished. Though pleased as she may be to leave the ugly bastards lie, it meant she could avoid it no longer.

_Wish for him,_ her mind offered as a way to prolong the inevitable—then, with more force: Wish him back. Sarah scoffed as she marched very slowly to the door. “I will not make a wish! What would I even say, he’s a King and I—I—” Her steps faltered— _I am a puzzle, nothing more._

Sarah stopped, one palm on the door, the other firmly grasping the weathered knob. It was like coming to the end of a long tunnel with no memory of how she got there. A sudden, disgusting panic welled up inside her, and with it the wild urge to turn and run. Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood throbbed in her temples. Darkness bore down on her, smothering her, until each breath became a painful struggle to pull back into her lungs. The muscles between her shoulder blades knotted, and she rolled them in an effort to relieve the tension trapped there, but the ache refused to release.

Only then did she realize what had braided her muscles and tightened her stomach. Dread. This is what she had been feeling, and denying. This moment was the one she’d been waiting for, only she couldn’t pinpoint what this was: the wish or the house. Both were terrifying endeavors, yet only one was entirely necessary in the grand scheme of things. Her chores were expected—demanded—even. Her father might not care for much, aside from the whores and tables he so regularly frequented, but he had become a warden over her tasks. The house was to be sparkling, though only a handful of eyes ever saw beyond the door, and it was her privilege—burden—alone to bear.

_But a wish…_

A wish was a choice—one only she could make.

Her forehead rested on the frigid wood, making her shiver. An unnameable, unfathomable emotion rose inside her breast, unfolding layer upon layer like the petals of a flower under the warm embrace of the sun. She could almost smell the heady fragrance of a full-bloom rose drifting in the air. It was the scent of promise. Of hope. _What have I to lose?_

Closing her eyes, her grip tightening on the doorknob as she waited. For a brief pause in the breath of time, Sarah wondered if he would come. He had offered her a chance to forget—to walk away and never look back. Twice he had offered and twice she refused, not wanting to let this strange chapter in her life disappear into oblivion. She needed this. She—against all reason and good sense—wanted to see him again. Biting her lip to fight the soft smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, Sarah breathed, “I wish—” her lingering doubts and fears tried to chip away at her courage, but she would not be deterred. And though her words came just louder than a prayer, her voice was strong: “I wish he were here, now.”

Sarah knew the exact moment he appeared, her lips pulling into a smile before she could command them otherwise. Aware that something had changed, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled at his nearness. Her dress was dirty and her face smudged; she was hardly fit to be seen, but for the life of her, she could not seem to care.

“Sarah…” Anger, unfettered and pregnant, weighted her name. It was a growl of raw force. It frightened her—thrilled her. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

“No! No,” she replied quickly, shaking her head in protest. With an adamant whisper, she added, “I am well. I promise.” Unhurried, Sarah turned, allowing her gaze to slide upward, admiring the details of his costume: the length of his black boots, the curious mahogany coat tailored to perfection hiding all but the starched white collar of the shirt beneath. Her eyes skittered past the contorted frown of disquiet and found his. They both remained silent.

Waiting for him to react, to respond, was torture. The stark feeling of nakedness that crept over her would have pulled all her fear back into place were it not for that foolish hope pinned to her chest. It wasn’t simply because he was here—though it was a significant factor—but moreover that he’d seen her at her worst, her weakest without judgment or condemnation. Even now he simply watched her, testing the truth of her words, and after an agonizing moment, she felt, more than saw, his tension palliate.

The very air with which he carried himself and the power coursing audibly in his veins as he watched her made her feel amorous—wistful even. She almost didn’t recognize the feeling but surrendered to it with ease. Without realizing it, Sarah drifted closer, until she was halfway between them, finally bringing herself to a stop with more effort than she cared to admit. His features remained stoic, and she wondered, not for the first time, if he was angry with her. She had after all, disrupted his schedule, calling to him without any real reason as to why. He was a king and she had demanded his presence—what right had she to make such a request?

_This was a mistake._ Sarah blinked, hoping to dissuade her dour thoughts.

Suddenly he was before her, only inches separating their bodies. A ruby flush crept up the column of her neck—her heart leapt beneath her ribs. If he was unhappy with her, he would step away, he would yell and be cruel. Only he didn’t; instead, he cupped her face, the smooth leather caressing her weather-rosed cheek. Her eyes closed at the gentle touch. “Goodbye.” His melodic purr soothed her troubles and Sarah felt herself smile, the sound wrapping around her in a warm balm of comfort and elation.

Then all at once, that single word resonated, striking deep into the fog of her reverie. She flinched and stepped away, her eyes sparking with pother—their unique algae and sea-glass turned a dulled beryl. The unexpected hurt brought tears to her eyes, and a pang of regret stung her heart. She had wanted him to miss her, to need her—and foolishly, Sarah had allowed herself to believe he might. There was nothing to say, nor did she wish to speak, fearing her voice would betray what little her expression left to the imagination.

“You weren't supposed to wish me back,” he said, taking a slow step forward as she moved further away, three colors of eyes locked firm on each other. Her mouth was slightly agape, the invisible puffs of breath catching speed as he pushed nearer. His eyes narrowed, but not in challenge or anger—but something Sarah did not quite understand, though she felt it deep within her. “You were supposed to say goodbye—not goodnight.”

Her eyebrows rose as she struggled for words. “W—what?”

“And yet you wished.” He scanned the length of her, the movement hardly discernible. “You stand before me uninjured, and by your own admission you are safe and well. Yet, here…I…am.” He drew out the words, letting each roll off his tongue in a gentle caress. Those sharp eyes narrowed, assessing hers with doubt, as a slow, delicious smirk pulled one side of his mouth. A spark of mischief lifted his brow. “Careful, Sarah, one might assume you wanted to see me. Or worse—” he took another step nearer, leaning forward as he spoke, “that you missed me.”

The Goblin King watched with great fascination as the color simultaneously drained from her face and her cold-bitten cheeks blushed an enticing shade of crimson. Herculean effort kept the roguish twist of his lips in place at her unspoken avowal; all the while electricity trilled under his skin. “You are rather quiet. Have I spoken untrue?” Another step had her craning her neck to meet his eyes.

“No—er—I mean, yes!” Sarah blinked, and coming to her senses with a soft shake of her head, she backed away until her heel bumped the kitchen door. Had she retreated so far already? He bent closer, holding her gaze as if attempting to convince her to confess with only a look. “Please.” It was all she could think to say, but there was no meaning behind it—none she understood.

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “I won’t harm you.” Faster than she could react, his hands shot out, his palms flattening against the wall on either side of her shoulders. Sarah froze. Her heart thundered, her gaze locking on his mouth as he smiled, a dark, dangerous curving of his lips. His knuckles drew faintly along the curve of her cheek—the icy leather sent a shiver up her spine. “You’re blushing.”

Sarah sighed, dragging much needed oxygen into her lungs. This man, his closeness, gave off the heat of brimstone compared to the coolness of the wood behind her. “It’s only the cold.”

“As you say,” he purred, his voice singsong and mocking. Slowly, ever so slowly, his nose traced the line of her jaw making her pulse sing. He closed his eyes, simply breathing her in. Try as he might, it was impossible to forget the kiss they shared so many nights ago, while standing so close. Even now, he couldn’t say why he had kissed her with such desperation that first night, but Gods help him, he wanted more. The rapid rise and fall of her chest combined with the hot whisper of her breath against his chin was intoxication in its purest form. “Tell me, my dear, did you miss me?”

“N—no.” She lied again.

Fighting against his own lust and illogical annoyance, he abruptly dropped his arms, stepping away before he lost control. “Why am I here, Sarah?” His brow twitched and rose without his permission. The words tumbled from his lips before he could catch them, “As much as I enjoy your blushed gawking—there are far more important things that demand my attention.” He winced at the bite of his own remark but said nothing in opposition.

She blinked several times before a single breath escaped. “Oh, um… of course.” It was all she could manage through the burning sting of his callous words—however true they might be. With a swift and undignified tilt of her head, she turned, throwing open the door, and fled to the kitchen with abandon.

Suddenly she dropped with yelp, landing first on the overturned chair that had snatched at her unsuspecting feet like a monster lying in wait beneath a child’s bed. Then she finished her clamorous descent with the smack of her palms and knees against the unforgiving stone floor. At once, hands were upon her, pulling at her. She screamed, fighting against them, smarting her ankle on the chair. Her heart beat fast as she threw her fists wildly about. They had come back. Lurking silent in the darkness for her arrival, she knew they would make good on their heinous promises. No! NO! Please!

“Sarah!” Her name was so far away. Everything was going to fall apart, and she along with it. There would be nothing left of her once they finished. Arms circled her, another sound calming her panic, “Shhhhh, shhh.” The noise repeated softly at her ear, a gentle hum that settled deep within her breast calming the painful drumming of her heart. “Shhh, you’re safe, love. You’re safe.”

She sensed a smell—not of anything she could recognize, but it was familiar. It smelled of warmth, of comfort—of home. Her muscles relaxed, and her back eased into that welcoming refuge from her fear. “Open your eyes, Sarah, it’s alright. You’re safe.” A hand ran over her hair, and she twisted so her face pushed against the wide expanse of his chest. It was just him, the imagined admirer of her dreams. Him, the Goblin King. Gradually her breathing slowed, and the heavy tightness that threatened to consume her lifted like a feather in the wind, soaring further away than she cared to reach.

“Thank you,” she finally said, refusing to meet the eyes she could feel against her skin. Sarah pushed away from him, embarrassed by her weakness. A desultory lumbering of limbs and fabric brought her to her feet as she studiously avoided any further contact with his person. There was no dignity in her movements, and the two brief glances she managed to sneak both revealed his amusement at her unladylike fumbling and hurt.

Sarah did not wish to think on the implications of such a look, so instead she focused her sleep-smudged eyes on the disordered room, smoothing her apron as she did. She was right—they had come back. Only not for her, but as a message. The room—and she supposed she would find the rest of the house in a similar state—was a smattering of furniture, shredded papers, shattered glass, and soot. Her fingers began to massage her temples. _My father is going to kill me._ Her eyes closed as she frowned, calculating the damage. The cupboards had been emptied onto the floor, and her carefully hung herbs were crushed and covered in soot dumped from the fireplace. The table seemed to be the only thing untouched, but the chairs had been broken beyond repair. To say they had left only a mess was to say the plague had been little more than a public nuisance.

“Perhaps they discovered your affinity for cleaning when bored?” He stood beside her now, his arms crossed over his chest. Her fingers stilled, and she turned her head to him, eyes aghast. His attention went to her lips, curled in unabashed shock, it was all too obvious she had forgotten he was there. Though his expression remained serious, his tone was lighter, “You said yourself that you clean forgotten rooms when boredom strikes—though I admit a kitchen is hardly considered forgotten—but the point remains.”

She stared back at him, a blush rising once more to her cheeks. Then, incongruously, her lips began to twitch at the corners as she struggled to maintain control. Her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle her giggles that only seemed to grow louder the harder she tried—until she could contain it no longer and gave in to her laughter. Daring another glance before she squeezed hers shut, their eyes met, and instantly he became infected with the same mirth. Dirt stained hands covered her face as tears sprang to her eyes.

Placing his hand on her shoulder, he drew her to him, wrapping her in the security of his arms before placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. He did nothing to hide his own smile as he listened to the sound of her calming laughter. It felt so right, her in his arms, her head pressed lightly against his chest. The thought was terrifying. Exhilarating. Silence surrounded them, but they both welcomed it, knowing words might douse the flames heating between them.

He felt her shift, the subtle movement of her head beneath his chin forced him to lean back. Assessing her gaze, there was no mistaking the raw intensity pooling in her eyes. It was a rare thing for him to be caught so off kilter. Odder still was that he wished to remain in this curious state, so long as she was there too.

Leaning forward, caving to his desires, he smoothed his cheek along hers and breathed against the shell of her ear. His fingers grew bold, tangling and pulling at her hair softly, just enough to make her tilt her head back exposing the curve of her throat. His nose traced a path up the smooth column of flesh. She smelled of earth, salt, and something far sweeter…

Sarah’s eyes locked on the high ceiling, attempting ardently to count the beams, pretending his hands did not leave her skin burning with wicked desire—but it was impossible. His fingers idly traced the ridges of her spine whilst his hands cradled the base of her skull, commanding her full attention. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense, his shoulders taut as he held her. The lips that smirked only moments ago became little more than a thin slash across his face as a frown pinched at his brow. “Tell me, Sarah,” the tone was gentle, pleading, but certainly not a request, “did you miss me?”

Sarah held her breath. She swallowed hard, feeling the confession slide down into the pit of her stomach like a heavy stone. It was inevitable that her dishonesty would eventually reveal itself, whether by her own admission or that of another (albeit only she knew such a secret). Sarah had hoped to disguise it awhile longer—or forever if she could manage such a thing. An eternity passed as she debated her answer, her hesitation stemming from the fear that he would think her ridiculous. When his overwhelming curiosity and unblinking scrutiny became too much, Sarah allowed herself to breathe: “Yes.”

Something flashed dark and heavy in his eyes, the faintest breath escaping his thin lips as the lines surrounding them deepened. The fingers in her hair tightened, keeping her rooted and speechless before him. He watched her. Shamelessly he leaned closer, his nose grazing hers, studying her for any signs of deceit.

He would find none.

Still captive between his gloved hands, Sarah was pulled forward, the infinitesimal distance between them closing as his lips brushed across her own—but he did not kiss her. His hold remained true as he stood poised before her, the lightest, barest touch of his mouth against hers. But he did not move—did not breathe. The sound of her heart racing echoed in her ears as she waited, wanting nothing so much as she wanted this. Rose flushed her cheeks, the temperature rising around them—and still he did not move.

Sarah wanted to scream, to beg him for something—anything—other than the raging fire burning delicious heat across her skin. He was teasing her. Daring her to continue. He was giving her a choice.

All the shadowy corners buried deep within her sparked to life as if he had taken a torch of gleaming light, waking the narrow avenues of long forgotten emotions: illuminating her hopes, her desires, her dreams, and rousing them from a slumber she believed would forever remain undisturbed. He was a stranger: a man at one moment indifferent to her and the next his entire being seemed to be consumed by her. It was remarkable. Disarming. To wield such power over someone so menacing, so very dangerous was intoxicating—addicting.

She wanted more.

With tentative slowness, her chin tilted, and her lips pushed against his. A sigh, deep and masculine, rumbled from his throat as he pushed back with unbridled urgency. It was powerful, raw—and he wouldn’t have stopped were it not for the rattle of a door, too far for her ears to hear, clicking in his skull.

He jerked her from her feet, forcing her behind him until her back was pressed firm against the nearest stone wall. “Do not move.” It was a King’s command, hissed under his breath as his eyes locked on the closed interior door. His shoulders were taunt again, but not out of anger—rather the lean muscles were waiting on bated breath for the impending fight.

Knocking ricocheted down the hall, drumming over the faint rumblings of a gentle voice calling her name. The sounds stopped abruptly, just long enough for relief to wash over them both, before the pounding began anew—the tempo becoming insistent. Far away someone called a name, the sound muffled as it traveled the through the house. Fear crept vertebrae by vertebrae up her spine, settling heavily on her shoulders. Dizzy and off balance, Sarah waited, trembling despite her companion’s formidable presence.

The knocking continued—the voice grew louder, more familiar, “Sarah?” There was a pause, and her name rang out clearer still: “Sarah?”

“Blythe?” She breathed, moving around her protector. “Why is—?” Her hands swiped at her face. Of course! Of course he had come to collect her. She should have guessed as much. His behavior at the shop should have been enough to rouse her suspicions had she not been so very distracted. If she knew him at all—and Sarah knew him far better than even herself—he would be waiting, not in the small cart used for deliveries at the press, but in his personal carriage, fully enclosed and sheltered from peering, troublesome eyes. Relief eased the tension from her body, a soft laugh escaping at her own foolishness.

Her bemusement was short lived, however, when realization dawned painfully in her mind: she was supposed to be alone. It took very little to imagine what would be said: what Blythe might do, the implications such a situation would garnish. Her honor, her reputation (what little she maintained), and her virginity—the very thing that saved her three days past—would be subject to questions. Many she could not answer without her madness becoming the subject of debate as well. The engagement would be broken, and she could be at the mercy of The Estate. Sarah’s back went rigid as she turned to him, her eyes impossibly round. “You—” she whispered frantic, “you cannot be here. You must go—now!”

She made for the door, thinking their exchange finished. She squeaked as his hand shot out, catching her waist, moving her to face him. “Then say you’ll wish me back.” He held her close, his features serious. His free hand moved to cup her cheek. “Say it.”

Sarah closed her eyes, a refusal trapped on her lips. But somehow the words swirling around her head would not come. “Yes, but you must go.”

“No—” the soft shake of his head indicating his displeasure. “No, Sarah. Promise me.”

She shook her head at his incredulous demand. He wouldn’t, she assured herself, he wouldn’t dare. She huffed. _He would._ The distant pounding of the door drummed in her ears, reminding her just how little time she had. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to the man holding her captive. “Yes! Fine, I _promise!_ ” she emphasized. “Now, go. Go!”

“Sarah?!” They stilled. “Are you here?”

He was inside.

The King could hear the gentle scrape of a boot on the marble tiles. In an effort to catch her unawares, he leaned nearer, forcing her to meet his commanding eyes. “Tonight.”

Her own narrowed at the sharpness of his tone. “I can’t— “

“Tonight,” he repeated over the sound of her employer’s summons.

Worrying her lips until she tasted blood, Sarah stared, agog at the strange man begging for her company. She ought to say no. Too much was at stake if she were caught, and what would be the prize if she weren’t? Letting her eyes drift close, Sarah made her choice with the subtle shake of her head. “Tonight.” Quickly, she stood on tiptoe and placed a tender kiss to his cheek. “I promise.” The words whispered against his skin before she lowered to her heels once more.

At once the door swung open as Blythe strode into the kitchen, a small frown tugging at his mouth. “Did you not hear me calling?” Her head shook in protest as he stepped closer, his eyes scanning first her person as if he expected to find her injured or unwell, then the room itself. “I cannot fathom why Richard would not have insisted you remain with us while he is away.” He gestured to the room, his head following his hand. “This is proof you should not be alone in this godforsaken—” he stopped, his eyes narrowed at her flushed expression, “Sarah, are you alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Love me, love me say that you love me!!!


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

************  
CHAPTER ELEVEN**   
_Falling.  
Dancing.  
Stopping._

The Estate was a magnificent looming structure nestled within the trees at the furthermost edge of town. What was once a grand castle, until seized from a known Jacobite sympathizer, was now a tomb for the criminally unwell and mentally deranged. From its grand exterior and finely groomed lawns, it bespoke of beauty and power— of luxury and excess— not the dismal prison of damaged souls.

Perhaps the best-kept secret and ugliest rumor was that not all locked behind the stone facade were unfit for society. Some were merely the product of bad luck and shallow pockets, hidden away by others who would benefit from their misfortune and suffering. Within the fine-papered halls, beneath the ornate chandeliers, and velvet curtains, lay the hollow, wretched shells of God's children.

In the beginning, it was meant to be a haven for the poor and downtrodden, and so it was for less than a handful of years. But as Bedlam could attest, such dreams of charity are often crushed by the terrible cost to sustain them— and wealthy benefactors, or the Crown itself, become the only chance of success. As luck would have it, the Estate garnered just that, along with a generous sum supplied by others rich enough to hide their shame and secrets indefinitely.  
These were the rumors that drew the woman through the fortress doors to where she now sat in a well-worn cushioned chair, awaiting the men she hoped could solve her problems. If all went according to plan (and her near-bottomless purse ensured as much), it would not be shame hiding deep within these walls, but more accurately an obstacle removed from the road of her ambitions. If there was anything to be learned in life, it was that money could open otherwise locked doors, and with the right name attached, the impossible could become a numeric figure.

_That_ was the power she craved— the power she was determined to possess.

The soft click of the door alerted her to their presence as they rounded to stand behind the massive mahogany desk at the center of the room. Both men were draped in black: one in robes, the other an elegant frock, their faces and expressions identical. "Before you speak," the robed man said, moving to take a seat opposite her, "I must warn you, my child, that God does not look upon this place with favor. These halls are damned, as are they that conduct wrongful business within them. Penance must be served, either in this life or the next." He watched her with unblinking silver eyes, a slight frown on his aged and weathered lips. "Choose carefully the path you would follow, for once you begin you cannot turn back."

Brushing the soft wrinkles from her stripped linen skirts, her chin rose in a delicate and resolute manner as she smiled. "I will be saving a life, Father Elswick. My soul matters little compared to the senseless suffering of one I so greatly care for."

The other man, the brother, moved behind the priest, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You see brother," he said, giving the broad muscles a squeeze, a small grin creeping into his much darker eyes, "her intentions are pure, and justified." Moving to sit behind the imposing furniture, his fingers interlocked and rested against the polished wood as he studied the woman across from him. "What you indicated in your letter is by no means a difficult task. We have done as much before and will gladly do so again, provided you have the funds to support such an endeavor." He raised a finger as her mouth opened to interject. "I am not questioning the depths of your purse. I seek only to inform you of the facts, such as they are."

"Of course, Doctor." Leaning forward, brow lifting in intrigue, her voice a dripping whisper of wicked intent, "So long as you can keep your promise, I shall keep mine, and your hospital will continue receiving its rather large _anonymous_ donation." Straightening again, she added, "I believe in your work. Your results are unmatched, proving the effectiveness of your methods, which is why I sit before you now." Her sincerity bled through, and they puffed their chests with pride. "Now, please," she gestured to both men with a gloved hand, "how should we proceed?" A genuine, knowing smile spread across the face of all three as they silently acknowledged their accord.

**********

There was something to be said about a steaming hot bath in front of a warm fire. Troubles could be forgotten, the dirt and grime of the day could be replaced with the gentle fragrance of perfumed soap and comforting oils. It was a luxury gifted whenever she stayed with the Tillens, who could afford the soaps and the help required for filling the large copper basin with heated water— and Constance always seemed to know the exact moment Sarah needed one.

Though the beautifully scented water was refreshing and indeed welcome, the scalding hot soak that had made her wince on contact had failed to burn away all traces of the day. Repeatedly, Sarah let the water close over her head as she sank down, rinsing the suds off her face and scalp. _What were you thinking? Tonight? Are you mad?_ Her lungs screamed, and reluctantly she broke the surface with a gasp, wiping the water from her eyes. She could still hear the strange, sweet sound of his voice begging for more, demanding she wish again— _tonight._

"Sarah?" A gentle rap followed before the door was pushed open just a fraction, "May I come in?"

Sighing, Sarah drew her knees up; the waves her movements created danced at the edge of the basin, threatening to spill over. Her arms wrapped loosely around herself at the same moment Constance moved gracefully into the room, closing the door almost silently behind her. A stack of folded linen balanced on one arm, and the other bore an expensive, floral-painted dressing gown that glowed in the golden firelight. Suspicion quelled, and she wondered if something was hidden within the carefully folded cover.

Without a word, Constance laid each item on the generous feather-bed with great care, pointedly avoiding Sarah's disapproving frown. Just as she suspected, lying within the ornate fabric was a delicate, lace-trimmed shift. "Before you say anything," the brunette said, turning from the bed with her hands balled at her hips, "these were to be a wedding present, _not charity._ I don't want any protestations from you, you prideful dolt."

Sarah huffed, eyes wide, mouth agape. "I'm sorry?" She shook her head with a slight smile, "Thank you— truly. It is beautiful, though you really did not have to bother, nor do I deserve it—"

"Are you quite finished?" Grabbing one of the precisely folded sheets, she moved to the side of the tub, shaking it loose and holding at eye level. Resigning herself, Sarah stood, wringing the water from her heavy-soaked curls, and stepped from the tub into the waiting cloth. "I thought you might like to use them now," her friend said, moving to the bed to grab the first of said items. "I doubted that Mrs. Rossen would have purchased such intimate items whilst on your little outing. Unless—" pausing, a moment before she tossed the undergarment to Sarah, grinning, "—unless, that was her plan all along: leave you with little more than rags to wear under such fine fabrics. It is ridiculous and petty and just the sort of thing that toad would do!" she exclaimed, finally releasing the cloth.

Sarah straightened the fabric across her body before shrugging into the butter soft covering; her fingers smoothed down the front, caressing the delicate and intricately embroidered threads laying against the cornflower silk. It truly was magnificent. "Only the toad _didn't—"_

"You mean— no!"

"Oh, she purchased _several_ , and made quite the show of it, as though I was some starving gamin she plucked from the streets!" Tying the sash, Sarah groaned.   
"Richard assured me that I would see far less of her after the wedding— but somehow I doubt that." Pulling her fingers through her dripping hair, she tried to turn her mind from the looming future and all that it would bring. Were it entirely her decision, Sarah would never have encouraged Richard Lefroy's attentions and thus be free of her impending marriage to a man who valued nothing but the power he held over her. He was not a villain, nor even a _bad_ man— simply a wealthy man that had the means to attain exactly what he wanted, and knew what it took to acquire them.

Before, the world had laid prettily at her feet, ripe for the taking. She was in no rush to see to her future; she could dance with whomever she chose, flirt behind silk printed fans, and fantasize about a husband who would be her slave in his devotion. She wanted to be deliriously happy, as she had once believed her parents were.— until her mother's remarkable skills made themselves known and her world shattered.

In five years she had gone from a fairly extravagant lifestyle of severe wealth to sifting through the broken remnants of feathers because she couldn't afford to replace a simple quill without stealing one from her employer (though Blythe would have gifted her several, had her pride not kept her from asking). All this because fiduciary responsibility was left to a broken man who would bet against rain, even as the first drops fell.

Rubbing her arms, Sarah broke from her dour reverie and sat at the delicate vanity tucked neatly beside the bed. Refusing to meet her reflection's eye, she pulled a large section of hair over her shoulder and began the soporific task of untangling the heavy curls. Wincing as the comb caught on a stubborn knot, she sighed, looking to her friend's approaching figure in the glass. "I'm sorry— I must be terrible company."

Constance leaned forward, taking the comb from her, and began picking gently through the ends, moving higher as each tangle unraveled easily at her deft touch. "You are hardly poor company. Besides, Richard will be home in less than a week, and all will be right as rain. You will be a married woman within the fortnight—"

She stopped abruptly as she noticed the reddening green eyes overwhelm a plaster-white face. 

"Oh, Sarah! Please don't cry." Constance leaned forward, gripping her shoulders, in a fierce embrace. "It's really not so bad, I promise. You will be mistress of your own home— free of your father and his recklessness." Pausing to let her words settle, she kissed the tear-dampened cheek, leaning her head press against Sarah's temple. "You will be safe.” The whispered words were a calming draught, “Content and perhaps one day, very happy."

Lowering her eyes, Sarah tapped the hand on her shoulder, nodding even as her lips trembled. "I am just a little overwhelmed, is all." She sniffled twice before clearing her throat and plastering what she hoped was a reassuring smile across her face. "Thank you."

"I love you— we love you, and you will always have us, no matter what the future holds." Resuming the soothing strokes through the dark strands of hair, Constance continued softly. "I know it is terrifying and exciting and too much all at once. But Richard is an amiable man, and although it is not a love match, it is a good match." With a pinched smile, she added, "You are very lucky— I know it hardly seems like it at the moment, but it could always be worse."

Nodding her acknowledgment, Sarah looked back with burdened eyes. "You're right, and I _do_ understand how fortunate I am." Her fingers pulled the locket back and forth across the simple chain, her thoughts threatening to run away from her once more. Her ingratitude for the miraculous and undeserved marriage offer had been a common theme within her home— and now her sanctuary. It was a topic she knew all too well and quite frankly, she was tired of it. "Enough of me, please. This cannot possibly be the only subject worth discussing."

"Good heavens, I hope not!" Straightening, Constance laughed, taking up her task once more. "Perhaps a game of riddles? I came upon a rather pesky one that has me quite— vexed." Her lips curled into a coltish grin, "What say you?"

"Consult an owl," Sarah blurted before she could stop herself. Clearing her throat in a weak effort to disguise what would certainly have been boisterous laughter, she tried again, "Of course, go on."

A brow rose. "An _owl?"_

"I have read that they are considered to be very wise."

A soft chuckle shook her shoulders. "That very well may be, but as I myself cannot interpret hoots and screeches, I doubt one would be of any use." A cheeky brow arched, as Sarah began to giggle. "Unless you happen to know one that speaks?"

Sarah's cheeks flamed. "I'm afraid not." The lie slid through her lips as his visage flooded her mind, assaulting her with the memory of his breath tangling with the wisps curling around her ear, the hum of his voice setting her skin ablaze. _Tonight._

"Pity." Constance whispered, just noticing the girl's breathless stare. Curiosity begged her to ask the myriad of questions swirling at the sight of that look. Settling for the least condemning, she asked, "Something on your mind?"

"Hmm? No— I am just a little tired, I suppose. Forgive me— what is your riddle?"

The brush hovered above the glossy curls, a quizzical pinch pulled the pink line of her lips. "Riddle? Oh, well," she cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders as she let the bristles smooth over the dark mass. "Why," she said liltingly, "after being attacked in her own home by three men, would a girl wander to the lake _alone,_ in the middle of the night without telling a soul?"

Sarah's eyes flashed, then shot to the floor. "I d-don't know what—" A sharp tug on her hair forced her head back. It was not painful, but the point was made: Constance knew. A cannonball plunged to the pit of her stomach; a sinking feeling crushed her ribs. How could she begin to explain? Panicked, the words rushed forth, "It isn't— wasn't— what you thought—think! I only—"

"Sarah."

"I c-can explain— I only meant to—"

"Shhh." A small hand squeezed her silk-clad shoulder, and silence settled comfortably around them. "I know why you went, and I understand." Eyes shot to meet hers, wide with something akin to wonder or horror. "You wanted solitude— somewhere to think. You went to the one place you have always felt safest. I know what the lake means for you— for Blythe." Constance swallowed, searching her friend for the trust that existed between them, willing Sarah to understand her plight. "I understand— you must believe that I do. But what would Richard think, or anyone else for that matter?"

She paused, her voice hoarse, "If you go to the lake, for the love of all things good— you must tell us! What would have happened if someone— anyone else had seen? A woman alone at a secluded lake in the middle of the night is either looking for trouble or it finds her." In a heartbeat, her voice turned dark, ominous. "I cannot forbid you, and I won't, so long as you promise— no more midnight trysts."

The pair were silent, and Sarah knew if she looked up, she would find those earthy eyes narrowed and glowing. She didn't look. She couldn't, or Constance would see the deception on her face. Her heart hammered, and she worried Constance would hear that too, above the slow breaths drawn to calm herself. "I promise," she breathed, her stomach twisting on the lie.

"Thank you."

Two oaths at a cross-purpose. Sarah knew she would have to give up this strange fascination with the Goblin King and the dreams and nightmares consuming her mind. He had been right: she should have said goodbye, walked away and never wished again. The map of her life— that already had changed so drastically— had been remade over a year ago, each line carefully drawn to ensure her survival— her future. Sacrifices had been made; dreams, hopes, ambitions had all been laid by the wayside in an effort to save herself. Yet, despite knowing what exactly what she _should_ do, Sarah couldn't help but entertain the _want._ The desire to act selfishly and make a decision that was entirely her own, regardless of the consequences. It was a dangerous game she played, the stakes far too high to allow for a winner.

"I do hope you feel sufficiently chastised," Constance said pointedly, a wry grin curling her lips. "My intention was not to mother you, though it appears I have failed in that regard— I came to ask a favor of you." Her countenance was sweet once more, her ire and concerns now locked away behind a genuine grin.

"Of course, anything."

"Do you suppose you might leave the shop early tomorrow, and linger awhile at the lake?"

Sarah turned abruptly on the plush-padded stool, "Constance, you only just lectured me on not going to the lake!"

"No!" She defended, a huff in her tone, her hands going to her hips. "I lectured you about _not telling_ anyone where you were going!" Her soft chin jutted in haughty protestation, the brush poking from her fist. "I am _asking_ you to go to the lake; therefore, I will know exactly when and where you are! Besides, you won't be going at a such a devilish hour, that threatens your reputation!"

"Unbelievable," Sarah laughed under her breath. "You _are_ trying to be rid of me! I have overstayed my welcome." She shook her head, ersatz offense making her pout. "You want me gone for whatever duration you can manage— you heartless fiend."

"Heartless fiend?" the woman laughed, "I can assure you, you have not overstayed your welcome. I doubt that you ever could. We love you more than many—most— of our _blood relations,_ and I hardly have to prove that fact!"

Sarah's hands lifted in easy surrender. "I'll go. You and Blythe can have the house for whatever unmentionable activities you had planned. I promise I will not return without being summoned."

Constance grew still, her eyes searching aimlessly about the room. "I think we've done quite enough of that already it would seem," she commented quietly with a beaming smile. "That is in fact what brought about the need for your absence—"

Her head snapped up and Sarah seized her hands. "You don't mean—"

Constance pressed her friend's hands, nodding excitedly with tear filled eyes. "I do! The midwife confirmed it— several times in fact." A childlike giggle bubbled forth, and she threw her arms around Sarah's neck, half laughing, half sobbing into her shoulder. "I have never carried this long, and I wanted to be sure. I couldn't let his hopes soar only to be dashed again— but the midwife assured me that all is well!" Dashing the moister from her cheeks, she said, "I am telling Blythe tomorrow and—"

"You need your privacy. Of course I will go! I am so happy for you— for you both!" Her arms wrapped mercilessly around the mother-to-be, her lips trembling as she tried to command the tears running steadfast down her cheeks. "When should I leave, and how long should I be out?"

**********

The Goblin King was bored. Bored, irritated, and _horrendously_ sober. Stealing a goblet from the polished silver tray brandished by invisible hands, he raised the golden liquid to his lips in a single, fluid movement. The honey mead danced across his tongue, sliding down his throat in a warm haze— but even his favorite drink wasn't enough to quell the tetchiness writhing under his skin.

She was late.

The festival of Bacchus had been well underway for several hours now, being every bit the pomp and circumstance he'd expected. The palace floor and steps shone with the gold gilt that had been liberally added to every surface for the occasion. Dim lights danced and twinkled behind nearly transparent, impossibly soft, silk gauze, moving as gently and steadily as the ocean waves on a calm summer eve. Pearls and diamonds were woven through lengths of ivy, dripping from the ceiling and chandeliers to kiss the shoulders and heads of dancers and merry-makers as they passed beneath them.

Plush, crimson pillows embroidered with shimmering threads were piled high in strategic, darkened corners and secret alcoves, giving rather effective beds for those who inevitably wished to celebrate the festival in accordance with ancient tradition. There would always be those who favored the old ways before the   
Faceless and the Labyrinth ever existed, the season before time.

After the guests had arrived, each having presented themselves to their host, they bled into the room, seeking the merriment promised by the decadent ambiance of the ballroom. All were dressed to outshine the other attendants— the headpieces lavish and ridiculous, the gowns cumbersome with fabric— the entire spectacle was almost laughable.

Now, however, most heads were free of their towering adornments and gaudy jewels. Shed as carelessly as old wrapping paper, hundreds of hats, tiaras, and brilliant garlands littered the floor beneath the draped windows. Feathers had fallen loose of their pins and peppered the tiles like snowflakes, becoming whirling dervishes as elaborate skirts skated past. Half the guests were wrapped up in another's company, lounging on pillows or against walls, while others continued the graceful dances at the center of it all. All the while soft sounds echoed from the alcoves as bodies writhed together.

The air was thick, suffocating— sweat tinged from both the clothed and unclothed bodies moving about the hall. A dozen or so women, in various states of dress attempted to break him from his disenchanted air. A month ago, he would gladly have taken whatever distractions he could find, but now— tonight— their attention only served to annoy him further. Woman after woman, and one man far too inebriated to remember his actions, had thrown themselves into his arms to secure a dance or two.

All that could hold his attention were the crystal orbs trapezing over his fingertips and the visions of the dark haired mortal smiling within them. Sarah. The woman doing the impossible— who dared to break her promise! The girl who had the audacity to make him wait! Again!

He was no blue-stockinged fool as to expect a hasty wish made just hours after his departure; he understood her need for secrecy, and the aid only nightfall could provide. Patience was ever his enemy, and it waned thin; his biting ire, a vice that he so rarely tempered, was a festering pox on his nerves. The swirling mass of dancers and jovial roisterers grated against his scalp, like nails dragging down stone, each serving to prove his initial instinct— to forego such festivities— was right.

A groan rolled in his throat at the approach of the last man in the Underground he wanted to see. "Good Gods, what do you want?" he sneered, gulping back a large swallow of mead, that had yet to dull his senses.

"Pleasure to see you too, your Majesty," Emere grinned, ear to ear. "You are looking rather unwell this evening— did someone piss in your mead?"

"Go to Hell."

"I would like nothing more, but where would you be without me?" The adviser stood in his handsomely tailored coat; unlike many, there was nothing elaborate on his person: his dark, white-salted hair, was tied back simply, and his face free of paints and powders. Were it not for the expensive weave of the wine dyed fabric, he could have been mistaken for a footman. 

"Meldryk certainly knows how to celebrate, though it seems he is trying to outshine your Harvest Hunt. But what do I know?" He shifted on his feet, turning to survey the gilded room. "It is grand, but I will tell you earnestly, Sire, your cellars are far better stocked than his. What self-respecting King serves only honey mead at the festival of wine? And where is the port— the whiskey?"

A slight quirk twitched his lips, his eyes rolled. "You know as well as I that Meldryk abhors Goblin Whiskey, as well as Vale Wine. If he won't drink it, neither will his guests."

"That is a terrible philosophy! He's hosting the ball that celebrates drunkenness— the least that can do is provide ample choices!" Emere was frowning, "It's about providing simple pleasures."

"He has." The cantankerous blonde lifted his glass, motioning to the shadows and alcoves and the bodies that occupied them. "There are your pleasures my friend. Take them as you will, or leave." The bite in his voice was not from drunkenness, as Emere had first presumed, but something else altogether.

He had his suspicions, all centered around the frightened beauty and her dreams: the King's riddle. They had yet to discuss the wisest course of action concerning the girl and her affliction. It all bespoke of dangerous impossibilities and raised more curious questions that he couldn't fathom where to begin. He had seen the brief interludes and stolen glances, the attack, and her enraged accusation— each memory replayed within the perfect spheres.

Emere could still picture the King that fateful night as he flew through the open windows of his study, transforming the moment he breached the threshold— the   
powerful fae collapsing with an enraged roar. In the hours after, every book was torn violently from their mantles, ink pooled beneath broken wells and splattered over papers from dignitaries and monarchs in a tattered collage of unfettered anguish. He had not bothered with the stairs, his preferred space for delirious destruction; instead, he shattered crystal after crystal against the tapestried walls and opulently carved furniture, until sweat dripped freely from his brow and his shoulders pulsated from exhaustion.

Emere learned days later what had transpired, not by explanation, of course, but by another orb, filled with the glittering smoke of memory: the girl pressed to the table, a filthy man growling viciously in her ear, hands wandering crudely across her body, the jeers, the laughter. Though her cries were muted by the glass barrier of the window, her sobs and screams pierced the core of his battle-aged heart. Emere found himself as furious over the impossible girl's terror and humiliation as the king— made all the worse knowing that had she _wished,_ the assailants would be dead and the nightmare would never have happened.  
The Hellfire eventually ebbed, and the King resumed his sardonic demeanor, perhaps a bit more somber than before. A listlessness, the likes of which his servant had never seen, fixed itself deep within those contrasting eyes, until just hours ago, it vanished.

Another crystal told him why.

Taking a rather large sip, he grimaced at the mild flavor before a single digit rose in thought. "Why are you still here? I thought she'd promised she would—" A dark growl from beside him was confirmation enough. "Ah, so it isn't the abysmal choice of drink fouling your mood—its _her."_ Emere's thesis was acknowledged by a pestiferous glare.

Pushing off the wall, the King spoke over his crystal goblet, his brows furrowed, "I am _not_ discussing this here."

"Change her mind, did she? Or did a mortal catch her fancy?" Emere teased, watching the muscles tick and clench along the stubborn jaw. Hatred clung to his form like the devil clutching to the back of a sinner, seducing with doubt and lies until there was nothing but the hollow shell of the men they once were.

Crushing the priceless goblet between dove grey gloves, the king growled. Pushing past his adviser with bruising force. Eyes trained on the swell of dancers, his attention drawn fixed on the lithe beauty in billowed ivory silk just steps away. She was beautiful: raven hair piled high atop her head, laced with pearls, milk-white skin painted strategically with silver dust, daring the light to kiss the exposed skin. The woman did not feign shy innocence, her pink lips were too purposefully pouted, aa her fingers idly traced the intricate diamonds pooling at her décolletage, inviting him to look… to _want._

Emere watched the silent exchange sighing with pitied understanding. The fae resembled the mortal. Deciding to intercede, Emere took three quick steps, catching the king's arm before he could meld with the roisterers and the silver woman. "Mayhap, she was detained and is waiting for a more opportune moment?" He half whispered, silently willing him to relent.

Annoyed, the king stepped nearer, his voice low. "Dawn is nearly upon us. What could have delayed her thusly? No— " He shook his head softly, pausing to stare at the glittering mosaic floor, studying it for answers. "She never intended to wish me back, Emere."

"But, Sire— your memory— she seemed so sincere—" he stopped, desperate to keep the man's attention. "Then perhaps— er— perha—" his voice fell, the words forgotten as an insidious thought took hold. His black eyes growing round as he tried to pluck the idea from his mind. It would not budge, instead latching its blackened, festering roots deeper. Pulling at the sleeve clutched under his calloused hands, Emere took the angered stare head-on. "Would _they_ come back for her?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_A pit of darkness…  
A trade…  
A lie… ___

__She was naked— soaked with sweat, dirt and tears. The dark night was as much her enemy as the men pursuing her. The girl stumbled through the bramble and thicket, the bare soles of her feet bleeding onto the rough earth beneath. The forest did not take pity on her pathetic form; its labyrinthine obstacles rose to wrap their crooked hands around her sticky, abraded ankles._ _

__Faster. She had to move faster. She had to escape._ _

__Heedless of the branches tearing at her exposed, frigid flesh, she pushed through the greedy arms of the gnarled oaks. A voice called out to her—her heart stopped. Whipping her head from side to side, she searched past the gloom of the woods that surrounded her. The darkness screamed at her like a beast rearing its head before the kill, the exposed teeth threatening to rip her in two as she fled farther into its depths._ _

__Nothing. She was alone._ _

__Not even the wind or the moon’s light penetrated the evil lurking in the late autumn air. She shivered. They were out there somewhere, but all she could hear was her own frenzied breathing, magnified by the smothering silence suffocating her at every turn. Crouching low beside a tree, she dashed at the tears lingering on her icy cheeks. Why were they doing this?_ _

__Why her?_ _

__Her chest heaved from exertion, the frost-bitten air burning her lungs with each heavy, desperate drag. She pushed her back into the damp bark of the tree; the tremors wracked as much from fear and exhaustion as they were from the cold. The pain was there too. Her feet could not carry her much farther. The shredded flesh, caked with mud and bramble, had lost all feeling hours ago when the burning throb became a numbing sting. The aching burn in her chest, the stitch in her side, and the pain lancing her frozen fingers with the slightest touch all culminated together to bare the agonizing truth: she was going to die._ _

__A slew of hideous voices once again echoed all around her, each sounding closer and more malevolent than the last. A soft tenor cut above the others, the sound cruel and dark. It was the voice of the Devil, unleashed from the pit of fire and ash. He had come for her! “You did not think we would let you get away, did you?”_ _

__The girl screamed, despite herself, scrambling on all fours onto the forest path. Prayers flooded her mind, pulsing at the back of her throat, choking her painfully as her tears fed the earth. From the corner of her eye, she saw the glint of the moon dancing across black polished boots. Suddenly she knew all was lost. They’d caught her._ _

__One of those boots caught her, and even as she tried to scramble for cover, she was too slow. The hard leather tip connected with her temple; her head exploded in pain, white spots—lightning—flashed behind her eyes as her body crumpled onto the forest floor._ _

__“There, there, hush now.” He crooned, kneeling beside her, gently—soothingly—brushing the hair from her bleeding face. The reverence of his touch disgusted her deep within the marrow of her bones. “Such a silly girl, thinking you could run from us. From me. You didn’t really think you would win, did you?”_ _

__“Please,” she begged, struggling against him to rise, “please, don’t hurt me! Let me go!”_ _

__“It is too late for that. You are serving a purpose far beyond your comprehension—you should feel honored that you were chosen!” He slapped her hard, the force splitting her lip._ _

__“You did far better than the others—three days—and for that I commend you.” He hit her again, sighing in pleasure, as she wailed beneath him._ _

__“Please, sir, please! Don’t hurt me! I cannot bear it any longer!” she begged, the words slurring through her tears and blood as she dragged her exposed body along the unforgiving earth, desperate to be away from him. “God have mercy!” The men were pleased with her cries of blind terror, chuckling at her words. Each watched with fixed fascination as their leader continued to draw whimpers from her swollen lips. “I swear I won’t tell a soul what happened! Please! PLEASE!”_ _

__With a grunt to his companions—his accomplices—her arms were forced above her head while coarse rope pulled taut against her wrists and ankles. Suddenly, she was snapped to her feet, the jarring motion making her head spin in agony as they pulled her roughly against the nearest tree. Her stomach churned as the ropes creaked and tightened above and below while they bound her to the trunk, straight as an arrow. The cold, the shock, and the fear of it all culminated until violent quaking overtook her body with enough force to shake the barren branches overhead._ _

__The leader stepped forward; the moonlight reflected the wicked glint in his eyes as he smiled._ _

__“The hunt, while exciting and wild, is for their amusement, and in some part my own. But this,” he whispered, pulling a strange blade from his coat, caressing it along the curve of her stomach and across the plane of her hips. “This is for me, alone.”_ _

__Her screams shattered the stillness of the night; the apathetic moon and stars looked impassively on the scene from their removed place in the heavens. The leader's men stood in wide a semi-circle around him and watched in delight, borrowing his twisted pleasure and claiming it for their own. The cries and wails rose to a fever pitch before they crescendoed in a final scream that was abruptly swallowed by a heavy silence, and the usual tranquility returned to the forest as if nothing amiss had occurred in its hollows._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:Abandon thought and let the dream descend... review!!


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**__________________________________________________________**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_A gifted dream._  
A breathless dance.  
A soured peach. 

Dusk was approaching, that strange overwhelming gray overtaking the vividity of daylight as the sun sank below the horizon. Not that it mattered—her hours of freedom had only just begun, and the fading light mattered little to her. No sound obliterated the quiet, save for the wind whispering through the trees, carrying the scent of wet grass and freshly turned earth.

Adjusting the heavy basket in the crook of her arm, she made her way into the clearing that had been consuming her every thought. She stopped near the water’s edge, pausing to quell her excitement.

Secretly hoping for his approval, she smoothed the front of her heavy woolen gown, having taken great pains with her appearance after leaving the shop that afternoon. The selection of her dress and the restyling of her hair after attempting—and failing—to adjust a few loose pins had been a far greater ordeal that she originally intended. Cautiously, her fingers tapped the mass of curls, not daring to shift the strategically placed pins at the back of her head.

All was as it should be—the only thing left was to wish. Sarah couldn't help the small smile touching her lips at the thought of him. Straightening, she breathed, a tiny cloud puffing at her lips: "I wish you were here, now." It was said with no hesitation, no fear.

The wind shifted its direction, again tossing ribbons of her hair around her face. The air spun and twisted in front of her until he appeared, his cape floating to the earth to rest over the intricate, black leather armor. His hair remained as wild as ever, as did his eyes.

Something was wrong.

"You're late," he all but spat at her, his jaw ticked, as his arms folded solidly across his chest. He was angry—of that she had no doubt.

Her breath caught, and she stumbled back a step, worrying her lip with her teeth. The smile fell from her face in an instant as she struggled to find her voice. "I-I'm sorry. I—"

"You lied to me," he ground out between his teeth as he took a slow, predatory step forward.

“Lied?” Her head shook in earnest protest. “No! No, I haven’t—”

He swallowed the distance between them, and she was obliged to scuffle backward or else be stepped on as he advanced. One arm swept the basket out of her hands, and it tumbled to the wayside. She jumped back with a gasp. "You said you would wish for me, Sarah." Her name came out like a hiss. "Do you think I take kindly being taken advantage of? Being made a _fool?"_

A pathetic squeak escaped her, eyes fixated on the silhouetted heap of the basket. Fear refused to let her look into those terrible pools of contrasting color that would only serve to prove his sudden repulsion of her. She did not understand what she had done. Surely one lost wish was not worthy of such disdain? Her voice betrayed her as she parroted, "Fool?"

A gloved hand shot out and seized her chin, painless but not gentle, tilting it upward, forcing her to look at him. "I am not some simple peasant boy you can cast aside! I am a _King._ I have the capability for great generosity and great cruelty. You wouldn’t survive the latter, believe me."

His hand moved suddenly, clenching into a fist. She shrank from him, thinking he meant to strike her. But then he turned on his heel, the movement inhumanly graceful, stalking away from her to the water’s edge.

"You promised me, Sarah. Does that mean nothing to you? Is your life so pitifully short that an oath can be so easily broken?" His hands were curled at his sides, the pebbles crunching as he pivoted to her, the dying sunlight catching the fire glinting in his eyes. "Oh, yes, you played me for a fool. Tell me, my dear, were you waiting to see how long your wiles could keep my attention?” The words were like poison on his lips. “I waited for you! I waited! _I do not wait—_ not upon the whims of mortals!” A crystal appeared in his hand, spinning madly over his dark gloved fingers before he spun to hurl it against the sunken turret jutting from the lake. Unlike their last meeting, this destruction held none of the same mirth as its predecessor. “I move the stars for no one!”

Her mouth hung open in a rude display of dumbfounded shock. Did he think so little of her? Did he believe she thought so little of him? “I _have_ wished you back.” It was all she could think to say, inadequate as it was. Mustering her courage, Sarah moved closer to his raging form with guarded steps. Even in the fading twilight, she could see the tension rippling across his frame: the balls of his fists were so tightly closed, she was certain his knuckles would burst the seams of his gloves.

"How many other promises do you intend to break between us? What other demands shall you make of me, I wonder?" The King’s eyes bore a darkness she had never seen before, as though he was possessed by some rancorous demon. His next words could not have been spoken with such insidious intent had the devil uttered them himself. “Would you prefer the company of your attackers? You did seem quite eager—”

Her palm cracked against his cheek with such force that the sting radiated into the crest of her shoulder, the question breaking her tenuous hold on rationality. Tears that had pooled, poised on the brim of her eyes, dried instantly, but the hard jagged rock in her throat held fast. "I fell asleep." The emotionless vocalization of her truth slid past her lips, too quiet for a mere man to hear.

He heard.

It was a devastating sound—far worse than the cries of war on the bloodied battlefields of his youth. This was an intimate suffering caused by the sharpened blade of his rapier tongue. It was proof of something broken—something he destroyed with his cruelty. The anger melted away into regret, guilt.

The fire that burned too hot leapt from his eyes to settle deep within hers, making a home for itself in her misery. "I fell... ASLEEP!" Sarah screamed, stomping forward. Her chest heaved. "I was exhausted from my daily obligations, you pompous bastard!”

He stared at her for a long moment, contrition and shame warring for top billing. His anger reduced to a simmer rather than a rolling boil.

"You fell asleep?" he repeated blandly. "Am I to believe you've just now risen from your bed? No, of course not. Because I left my kingdom to find you, to make sure you were safe and unharmed! And what did I see?” he asked mockingly, his voice still low, as he snatched her upper arms with painful force. “I saw you laughing while you sauntered down the road. Were you asleep then? And when you saw me, for I know you saw me, Sarah, why did you not make your wish then?” A brow rose as he inclined his head to her, mocking her with his sneer.

Unsure, she simply watched him in the approaching twilight, trepidity festering within her breast the longer he remained silent. An awkward, palpable moment passed before Sarah tried to wrestle free of his commanding grip.

He released her almost violently, not shoving her away, but certainly wanting nothing more to do with her. Long, slender legs paced away while one hand tore through his hair. He paced like a caged beast, striding back and forth in attempts to tame to tempest warring within him. Suddenly he roared, a crystal exploding on the rocks between them, the powered shards glittering against the pebbles.

Her hand shot to her face, her scream silenced as she clamped hard against her lips. Before rational thought could stop her, Sarah found herself clutching her skirt and breaking into a full sprint towards the welcoming forest. Cutting an unfamiliar path through the trees and bramble, she struggled to keep her footing even as her mind panicked.

The scattering of stones and the rustle of leaves drew the Goblin King from his dour thoughts, bringing his attention back to the source of his ire—only to catch her retreating form an instant before it vanished into the darkened woods. “Sarah!” Off like a shot he sprinted, practically flying over the ground, weaving in and out of the trees with much the same ease as a deer. Her speed surprised him. She was fast, but he was faster. Stretching his arm, he reached for her.

She screamed.

An iron vice clamped her bicep, bringing her to a fierce and jarring stop. Pain radiated up her shoulder as she spun into the wall of her pursuer. Her eyes were pinched shut in terror as she blindly swung her free arm in wild defense, landing an array of solid blows against her target. Suddenly she was back within her home—her petrified, muddled brain told her that dirty, vile man was back, breathing evil threats into her ear. He had returned to claim his prize—to finish what he started. Screaming into his chest, she said the words that reechoed within her nightmares. The words she should have spoken The words that would save her: _"I wish you were here now!”_

Snatching both wrists, he jerked her forward against him then wrapped his arms solidly around her, pinning her to him. "Sarah! Sarah, I’m here. I'm here," he cooed into her hair, gently rocking side to side, all the while humming an unintelligible tune into the disheveled mass of tangled curls. The raw emotions that had driven her away, that fueled her fear like dry brush to wildfire, dissipated at the sound of her wailed wish. It did not matter that she had made him wait, purposefully done or not—nor did any of his other fathomless, spiteful accusations. Sarah was no villain. She had more goodness within her littlest finger than he in his entire being.

The abominable disaster of the evening was entirely his fault. She had been beside herself with anxious anticipation the moment he appeared before her: he had seen it written unabashedly across her face, eyes bright and luminous at the very sight of him. Even her wish had been calm and certain—not the trepidatious jumble uttered out of fear and hesitation. She wanted to see you, his conscious lectured. She wanted you. _And how did you repay her? You tormented and insulted her with impertinent accusations!_

_No wonder she fled._

He chastised himself once more before whispering above her hair. “I am here. You’re safe now.” His lips pressed to her hair. He made soft shushing sounds before murmuring, "I'm sorry.” Over and over, his strange mantra of apologies and reassurances melded together, and within the velvet notes humming just above a whisper, her tension slowly began to drip away.

The haunting melody seemed to draw her out from the depths of her memories, just as he had within the wreckage of her home the day before. It was as much the words, as the scent that clung to his form, that managed to pull her from the befuddled and terrified waters of her living nightmare.

A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her at her ridiculous outburst, and worse yet—her wish. Shifting, she felt his hold lessen as he allowed her to step back from his arms. He didn't release her, but his hold was gentler now, almost endearing—tender.

Stooping to catch her gaze, he caught her terrified, mossy eyes, and at once a decision was made: he would give her an explanation. He owed her as much.

"When you didn't call for me, I thought at first you meant to punish me somehow.” He paused, gritting his teeth at the confession, hating the way it tasted on his tongue. With a slow breath, he continued. “Another thought occurred to me then—one that I couldn’t push away. I feared the worst—that they had returned to harm you further. That you'd be—" His head dropped, and he leaned his forehead against hers, weary lids falling over mismatched eyes as he breathed her intoxicating aroma into his soul.

"I am without weakness—but you—” His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. Before even he knew what he was doing—before he could stop himself—his hand tangled in her hair while the other pulled her body flush against his. His mouth devoured hers. Marking her. Claiming her.

He put his anger into the kiss, along with the shame he couldn’t conceal. He was ruthless, plundering her mouth again and again. She surrendered to him, even as he swallowed her soft whimpers. Again her tears welled, but she made no effort to stem their flow, letting them trickle from the corners of her eyes to spill onto her cheeks.

The kiss softened, becoming more loving and less brutal. He pulled back to peer briefly into her eyes before lowering to kiss the tears away from her face. He licked the salt from his lips before returning to her mouth, teasing and nibbling lightly. The hand tangled in her hair tugged softly, allowing him the surrender he craved. Slow, shuffling steps gradually moved her backwards until their progress was halted against a thick tree trunk, and with a tortured moan, he leaned into her.

That sensual sound shattered the trance that had consumed her. Reality took hold, forcing Sarah to break the kiss with a shuddering gasp. The rapid pounding of her heart echoed loudly between them as she stared straight ahead. The foreign, but not unpleasant sensation of his assault lingered on her bruised lips as they both panted for breath.

Transfixed by the beauty before him, his mind wandered. How long had it been since he'd allowed his control to slip? Only this perfect enigma could confound him at every turn, boil his temper one moment and his lust the next. Looking down on her with wonder, he noted the heat radiating from her, his own body flush against hers from knees to torso. Again, he dropped his forehead to rest against hers, contenting himself to just have her in his arms, unafraid.

He could feel her frowning, and were he not so close, he wouldn't have caught her whispered words. "You can be so… _cruel."_ Yet despite that, she remained trapped between his unyielding form and the tree.

His lips curled back in an almost wicked grin that revealed pointed canines; a chuckle rumbled deep within in his chest. "Oh Sarah," he purred against her ear, wrapping the ribbons of her hair around his hand to sweep them out of his way. "I can also be so very generous." He lowered his mouth to the column of her throat, teeth nipping, lips suckling at the skin there, tuning his senses to every tiny sound and movement his ministrations evoked in her.

Sarah tried to slow her frenzied pulse, whimpering in an attempt to silence the wanton sounds she could hardly believe were hers. She was not this woman. She was far too sensible to succumb to such brazenness. Yet, there she stood, neck arched, eyes closed in reckless abandon as his lips continued mapping out the sensitive column of her neck.

He laved the skin over her pulse, lashing his tongue against it before biting gently, and when he felt her body shudder beneath his touch, he couldn't help the satisfied grin that spread across his lips. Turning his attention to the other side of her neck, his splayed hands began to wander the length of the corset, settling at the curve of her hips. Those sharp teeth were her undoing as he nipped at her ear, his tongue caressing the tender flesh as an unfettered moan turned into a gasp. She fought to control herself, trying desperately to regain her senses. "No." _She was not this woman._ "No!" this time with more force. “Stop!”

His hands lifted off her immediately, and he stepped back. His breathing was deep and ragged. He pushed a hand through his hair, watching her squirm as evidence of the war within her mind. “I anticipate the day when I won't have to stop," he said with a hungry smirk.

Sarah said nothing. His words terrified her, excited her, and she dared not dwell on them further. Deciding to put much needed space between them, she pushed away from the tree, only to be stopped with a sharp tug at her scalp. The bark held her hostage, its rough hands latching onto her hair just as her companion’s hands had been only moments before. Lifting her arms to untangle it, she winced, gritting her teeth against the soreness of her forgotten shoulder as the heavy curls began to fall free.

His eyes never left her, wanting her on edge, uncomfortable, and off balance, while he drank in every detail of her svelte figure. Dove-grey twilight touched the slender, vulnerable edges of her face, and he was once again grateful for his enhanced sight, and the unencumbered view it afforded him.

An odd sensation gripped deep within his core at the sight of her dark tresses spiraling free down her back. It had been too long since he had seen them unrestrained, and even then his memory could hardly do it justice. Beautiful, that is what she was—what she had been before—what she would always be.

A deep breath filled his lungs with the frigid night air, and he savored the burn. It grounded him, distracted him.

Sarah could feel his eyes caress her, though she could make out very little in the darkness under the cover of trees. Cautiously, she stepped forward, navigating her way back to the water with an outstretched hand. Her fingers grazed the bark of one tree as she made her way to the next.

He watched her shuffle her way through the night, her skirt and cloak catching on this or that as she stumbled forward. Finally he took pity on her, and in a few deft strides, his large hand closed around her small one with a start. No words were exchanged—he simply led her through the trees, guiding her every step until they were once again under the open expanse of the slowly encroaching starlight.

A full minute passed before her eyes dropped and her head shook as she tried to regain composure. "I need light." Her sibilated demand trickled away as she craned her neck to see where she had placed the lantern before making her wish.

"Do you?” he crooned, leaning ever so slightly closer, his voice a velvet whisper. “Pity. I find that darkness can be quite liberating.”

Her pulse quickened at his insinuation as a warm heat hummed within her veins. Sarah stepped back, one hand pressed firm against the wild tattoo of her heart, as though it might steady her wandering thoughts. Spinning away from him, in an ill-attempt to find the lost lantern, Sarah marched forward only to stop abruptly with the realization that night had almost completely fallen.

Lifting her foot, Sarah probed the ground, and finding nothing, stepped forward, repeating the action. He should not have garnered such delight in her discombobulated misery, but he found himself watching far longer than he ought, before offering any assistance. "On your right, about six steps to the side and two forward."

The dull clink of her foot tapping the glass proved him right, and Sarah found herself dumbfounded. "Can you really see in the dark? Or was it a lucky guess?" She squinted, trying to make out his features under the starlight, tilting her head to scrutinize his inimitable silhouette. She could see nothing. Her shoulders drooped, the unlit light hung limp at her side. "You cheated, didn't you?"

“And why would I do that?”

She blinked, staring far longer than society would deem polite, her breath trapped in her throat. Her face resembled a poppy blossom, round and obnoxiously red. Swiping at the errant wisps dancing in the breeze, Sarah pressed her chilled hand to cool her heated cheeks. Could he see just how unsettled she was? Or the blush crawling up her neck?

“You’re staring, Sarah.” He chuckled at her sudden jolt. Her hand fell away from her face, and her teeth caught her lips once more. _Gods below!_ What she did to him! Repressing the urge to taste her lips again, he decided upon another equally intriguing alternative. Taking an idle step closer, he linked his hands behind his back as he inclined his head to the lantern. “Do you plan to light it, or is it merely decorative?”

Her eyes fell to her hand, then darted back to his form. “Oh! Um—the striker is in the basket—” she said, abashed. “Excuse me.” Reddening further, Sarah moved to find the misplaced picnic she knew was scattered somewhere near the shore. Her steps were halted, however, when the lantern was tugged easily from her grasp.

“Allow me.” Lifting the glass box, he studied it a moment, his finger tracing the thin spider-vein cracks. A piquant grin touched his lips. He couldn’t explain why such a simple thing mattered, but somehow it did. Opening the small hinged door, he blew a soft breath against the exposed wick, and the flame danced to life, illuminating his face in a golden glow. An awed expression lifted Sarah’s delicate features as he tendered the lantern back into her waiting hand.

A soft rumble pulled Sarah from the trance of his presence, reminding her just how long it had been since her last meal. Self-consciously, she pressed her hand hard against her stomach, demanding its silence with her touch. When her attempts at quieting her aching core proved futile, she remembered the small supper tucked within the large wicker carrier.

It took her a moment, but eventually her eyes found the discarded basket laying near the water, its once carefully packed contents strewn about in a disheveled mess. A deep frown set her features as she raised the light; the beautiful supper she packed with great care appeared to have been all for naught.

Looking over her shoulder, the Goblin King noted the flotsam picnic scattered across the pebbled shore. “Tell me, my dear,” he purred softly, the barest touch of his lips against the shell of her ear, “what sort of feast have you prepared?”

Hoping to salvage what she could, Sarah stepped away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her heart raced as she knelt against the pebbled shore, her hands shaking as she gathered the scattered meal back into the basket, trying to keep thoughts of his touch out of her mind.

She cried out as a sharp pain pierced her palm. The bright sound drew an exclamation from the man behind her, followed by a low question asked with forced calm.

“Sarah?”

A throbbing burn pulsed in her hand as she pulled it to her lap. Marveling at how strange the wound felt, she held her wrist away from her, transfixed by the sensation of her cupped hand filling with blood. When a gloved hand cradled hers, she squeaked, as its match produced a white linen square and pressed it firm against her gash, the material slowly darkening as it absorbed her blood.

Pulling the stained fabric away, the Goblin King cradled her small hand within his. Examining the injury with great care, he traced down the jagged line of torn flesh with his thumb, ignoring her sharp wince at his touch.

"Stay still," he commanded with a whisper, "and watch." Leaning forward far too slowly for it to go unnoticed, he bowed his head, bringing her hand up with the motion. Until, at long last, his lips touched the very heart of the abrasion—a feather light kiss that had no right drawing a gasp from her lips. An impossible warmth seeped deep into her flesh. It radiated outward, spreading through her hand and up toward her shoulder, her skin tingling in its wake. As quickly as it had happened, however, it was done. Sarah didn't dare look at the wound, instead fixing her eyes on his. He smirked as he straightened. "Look down," he suggested with a boyish grin.

Her injury had vanished. Not a smudge of blood nor the tiniest of scratches remained.

_Impossible—_ it was the only thought running rampant in her mind as her eyes remained locked on the unblemished flesh of her palm. _Impossible._ Even her thoughts were out of breath in sheer wonder at what she had witnessed. "How did—that's not— _my God,"_ she breathed, not realizing her thoughts had found a voice. Finally lifting her eyes, now wide with fear, she trembled, "what _are_ you?"

He bit back his amusement. "Oh Sarah, would that it were as simple as just telling you." He slipped a bent finger beneath her chin and lifted her face. He studied his imaged reflected within the large pupils. He didn't linger long—he could sense her hesitation and released her a moment later. Rising from bended knee, he moved to lounge against an uprooted tree a stone’s throw behind them.

Sarah was still cupping her previously injured hand with the other, staring intently at the blank palm as though she expected it to split in half, leaving a gaping hole in its place. A slight tremor slid through her body the longer she sat frozen on the rocks.

_Impossible—_ the word was becoming a permanent fixture in her daily vocabulary.

Sagacity compelled him to reach for her, leaning the short distance to catch her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Sarah.” When moss green eyes blinked innocently back at him, he met her gaze with sincere regard. "You have neglected your basket."

With a slight shake of her head, Sarah inched forward on her knees and arranged the small picnic of hard cheese, cold ham, bread, and two lemon tarts on the crisp linen napkins, laid over the pebbled shore. Embarrassment washed over unexpectedly. This was no feast—hardly a meal fit for servant, least of all a king. True, she had packed a bottle of wine and a jar of marmalade, but both had broken when the basket crashed to the earth, leaving them with their humble spread.

He looked over the meager fare and smiled. True, it was a far cry from the spreads to which he was accustomed, but she had packed it with him in mind. _She was thinking of me—I commanded her thoughts._ Pride swelled within him. "This looks delightful," he said, reaching straight for the lemon tart.

He took a slow bite, his tongue flicking out to catch a crumb at the corner of his mouth. Leaning forward, he offered the sweet to her. "Your turn." His voice was low and gravelly, coaxing her to partake of what he offered. A fond memory of her biting into a particular piece of fruit flitted back to him. "Next time, you ought to bring peach tarts."

Like a dance, her body moved away, the color returning to her cheeks at the baritone purr that seemed to flow through to her core. Pulling back from the tempting scene before her, Sarah stuttered, "No, thank you. I find I have no appetite."

He tsked softly. "What a shame." His head canted to one side in an almost bird-like expression. "Is there nothing I can say to persuade you?"

Shaking her head softly, she stood, her hand pressing into her core once again. "Forgive me." She spun away from him to stare into the chilled night mirrored on the glossy lake. _What are you doing here?_ Her heart was racing again, heavy with worry. _He—YOU shouldn't be here._ Her fist flew to her mouth, suppressing the sob begging to be released. _You know next to nothing about him,_ she told herself flatly, biting into the tender meaty flesh. _Nothing good can come of this._

One pointed brow arched upward. He slipped the remaining bit of tart beyond his lips while he observed her, studied her, as a scientist does a specimen. _What is my little riddle trying to puzzle out now?_ It wasn’t often, but now and then he wished his magic could reach further—that he could see through the barriers of her mind to read the secret thoughts trapped within.

An ankle crossed casually over the other, as he stretched a long arm across the length of the log, his fingers drumming a senseless rhythm, stopping at the sound of her voice.

“Every night you visit me. Sometimes in dreams—sometimes in nightmares.” Her voice was tentative, tremulous. “Neither of us understands why.” Rubbing her arms protectively, she sighed a ragged, nervous breath—her mind and heart at odds with one another.

When the taciturn minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the Goblin King cleared his throat, hoping to draw those entrancing eyes his way. He was not disappointed. Her neck moved first, her chin touched the heavy fabric at her shoulder as a wan smile spread her lips—ah, those lips—still bearing the pink bruises of his kiss. What he wouldn’t do to taste them again.

“Why did you come here?”

"Because, my dear, you wished," he drawled.

Displeasure furrowed her brow, pinching her lips as her head tilted slightly. "I have more questions than answers, but you—" Swallowing hard, she turned to him with an unreadable expression, her fingers twisted in the loose ends of her hair, holding her breath. “You must have reasons to be here.”

"My reasons are my own," he said, placing a bit of sweet meat on his tongue. The irritation his words should have produced was halted as she watched him chew. A subtle and mesmerizing change washed over his features: a subtle softening of the hard lines around his eyes and mouth, the scene heightened by the low hum in his throat. Heat rippled through her chest as she watched how pleasure affected him. “You’re staring, Sarah,” he purred, slipping another bite between his teeth with prudent slowness, his tongue darting out to swipe across his lips.

Unexpected shivers raced up her spine. Scorching blood pulsed. Sarah shook the tumultuous sensations from her body. Desire smoldered beneath her faltering control and heated flesh, crashing through her veins like waves upon the shore. Lifting her head, she found his gaze, or what little she could see of it, fixed upon her with raw emotions. Hunger. Curiosity. Want.

“Come eat, Sarah.” The command was kind, but it was not to be brooked. When she made no move to comply, he sighed deeply. The muscles around his nose gave the faintest twitch. “Please, Sarah, you must eat.” Again, she did nothing—said nothing. "Very well. You have questions you wish answered, and I wish for you to share this meal with me. If you eat with me—allow me to feed you—I will answer your questions after we have feasted. Or,” his voice lifted in nonchalance, “you can leave now, and I forever remain an enigma."

“If I wish you back—”

“I’ll not answer your questions.”

Sarah knew instantly this was no bluff.

A slow smile crept across his lips as he met her gawk, looking every inch like a starving wolf eying a delectable morsel. He shifted his position and patted the pebbly shore beside him in silent invitation. "I won't bite."

Smothering her pusillanimity, she chewed her lip and moved to claim her seat. Twisting her billowed skirt between her shaking hands, she waited in a fluster, her pulse racing. Every inch of her skin prickled in heightened awareness, singing at his nearness, begging for the merest touch. Finally, with bated breath, her dithered eyes met his seductive stare.

_This is a terrible idea,_ her mind scolded, but she couldn't seem to keep her feet from tiptoeing closer.

He wouldn't touch her, not yet. This had to be her choice; therefore, despite his desire to wrap his fingers around that slender wrist and yank her down to him the moment she was within reach, he resisted. Instead, he maintained the appearance of calm across his features as he waited for her to take her seat beside him.

_Defiant._

That is what she was being, she knew, but it seemed she had as much control of her person as one would a feral cat, thus she found herself kneeling before him—not beside him as he clearly intended.

He noticed the deliberate choice and bit back a growl that threatened to become a chuckle. "There now—you're still alive and well." Long, elegant fingers lifted a piece of meat and held it out to her, his eyes trained on hers in challenge. _A bargain was a bargain—but how badly did she want her answers?_

Beryl eyes fell, darting this way and that, avoiding him entirely. Mortification burned painfully on the apples of her cheeks as her hands knotted in her skirts, her fingers aching from the brutal grip. _Allow me to feed you._ Her mouth opened the barest amount, her breath trapped within her lungs.

When several inactive seconds passed, Sarah dared to lift her gaze to the hovering morsel waiting just beyond her reach. His hand remained steady, held aloft in expectation, a nonplussed expression highlighting his eyes. Swallowing hard, submitting to her defiant apprehension, she hesitantly moved to pluck the small slice from his elegant, covered fingers.

He grinned at her. "There now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" Sarah chewed, sighing deeply in an effort to keep her heart from hammering a hole through her chest. With a dark look, he glanced pointedly at the spread, then back up to her in expectation. "I believe it’s my turn."

She choked. "Wh-what?"

"I fed you. Now you’ll feed me," he challenged.

"I—I don't think—"

“I didn’t ask you to.” He had her. He knew he had her. "Do you want your answers?"

"Is this a trick?"

His head tipped to the side quizzically. "Why would I trick you?"

"You've promised answers before if I wished you back.” The memory of that kiss burned into her soul, flashing brightly behind her eyes. Lifting her chin, she finished with quiet force. “Well here you are—and my curiosity has yet to be sated.” Not waiting for him to interject, Sarah shakily spoke with far more conviction than she felt. “I will play your game, sir. But I require one answer first—as proof that you will indeed stay true to our bargain."

"Shall we kiss to seal the contract?" His eyes were alight with mirth as he moved to do just that.

She pulled back, her look sharp. "I have set my rules, sir. Will you comply?" she countered, ignoring his question.

Before she could think to react or move away, he swooped forward and pressed his lips against hers, stealing a kiss and swallowing the surprised sound that bubbled up on her throat. He pulled back slowly, whispering, "Ask your question."

Hooded eyes stared back at him, her mouth still open from his too-swift assault. Her tongue darted to wet her lips before her teeth tugged at them nervously. “I would have your name.”

His gaze followed her tongue's movements as his insides clenched and hardened. Oh, what he wouldn't give to hear his name on her lips, preferably screamed, or even moaned. But the damn rules—rules that had never been more than botherment were fast becoming the bane of his existence!

She had to ask _this_ —an answer so forbidden to mortals it was bound with magic far more powerful and ancient than even his Labyrinth? He had been warned in his youth, before the crown weighed his brow and wishes consumed his days, of the pain should one even attempt such foolishness.

_Impossible._ The word clung to her person like a second skin, like a dampened pieced of hair clinging to the nape of her neck as she sat poised before him. Her expectant eyes burned with the fading flame of hope as she awaited the answer he could not give.

_The impossible girl asking an impossible question,_ he mused bitterly.

_Is it impossible? Her wishes—her dreams—prove the opposite. Why should my name be any different?_ Clearing his throat, the king sat back, spine rigid with pusillanimous apprehension, his face plastered with the angered indifference he wore so often. “As you wish.”

_Pain._

Unbearable, nauseating, searing pain erupted across his nerves and through his blood like liquid fire. His mouth hung open from the force, locked in a silent scream as he stiffened and twitched, the lust from his countenance evaporating as consternation took its place.

Sarah watched in abject horror as the obdurate monarch fell hard, his hands only just catching his juddering form. The crunch and growl of his long fingers digging savagely into the rocky earth grated against her ears, her own hand flying to cover her paled lips. A stinging ache burned against her eyes as they doubled in size; confusion and fear rippled across her nerves as she watched the terrible scene unfold. Her hand moved to hover inches above his shoulder until she succumbed to the compassion welling deep within her, touching her fingers gently to the cold, dark leather.

His mouth opened as he strove to form his answer, each attempt more agonizing than the last. He was breathless, his brow damp with sweat, his body rigid. "Gods below!" he cursed through gritted teeth, his chest heaved from exertion.

Slowly his head lifted. Sarah pulled her hand back as her tear-filled eyes locked with his. Platinum strands clung to his temple as he recovered from his struggle, the small beads of sweat glinting in the gentle lamplight.

_“That,”_ he winced with ragged breath, “is an example of the rules to which I am bound.” He needn’t have watched the emotions swirl and pool in her tear-blurred eye to know just how deep her disappointment stretched. With a snarl, he swatted viciously at the earth, spraying rocks and gravel across the shore to shatter the mirrored sky into hundreds of rippling rings.

All at once, he was on his feet, as though the nightmarish torment had been a figment of her imagination. A hand dug tempestuously through his hair as he paced, a feral growl burned his throat. “Ask your questions, I said! I'll answer whatever you ask, I said! AHH!"

A crash burst through the air.

Sarah screamed as a crystal shattered against the tree line. Suddenly, those wild eyes were upon her once more, his shoulders taut with unbridled adrenaline. “I have broken our bargain.”

“Sir?”

“I promised you a name that I cannot give.” Had she not be studying him with an intensity that was surely indecent, Sarah would not have seen his stark brows shift—nor would she have noticed the way the shadows slid across the terrain of his near expressionless face.

The barest thread of thought, so delicate a spider would not dare to weave it, danced in the whirlwind of her mind. Snatching at the invisible string before it could be overtaken by another, she spoke: “You knew. You knew what would happen if you answered, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

Taken aback at his confession—his honesty—her jaw dropped. A fresh wave of tears trickled across her cheeks. “You knew? You knew that would happen—and still you tried?!”

Inexplicably furious, Sarah reached blindly, snatching the nearest item, launching it straight at his head. Her anger adumbrated her reason. The Goblin King only just avoided the flying tart as it sailed past his ear to land in a messy puddle behind him. “I thought you were dying!”

“Sarah—”

Dashing away the unwanted tears, Sarah bit back the sobs that seemed barely restrained within his presence. “I thought—” she caught herself before the words trembled like her nerve-wracked heart, “I thought it was my doing.” Her head fell into her hands, her resolve deflating. _It was your doing! If you had not wished him here—demanded answers—_

Her head still bowed, knowing all too well the power those resplendent eyes held, Sarah offered only what she could. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry for the pain I caused you, sir. Forgive me.” Swallowing hard, she spoke softly. Sincerely. “I shall leave you now. Please, believe I never meant you harm.”

Taking deliberate, measured steps to where she remained, he sank to his knees before her. His hands lifted to frame her face between them, thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. Before she could blink, he pressed his lips to hers, drawing her in as he inhaled her very being. She was swallowed in the command of his kiss. Her veins burned with curious fire. She forgot to breathe. With all power in the quest to capture her soul, his lips parted, his mouth like spiced wine, more potent that the strongest drink.

Breaking away with a gasp, his hands urged her chin up. His jaw was clenched, his brow knit in a pained expression. The dampened face in his hands leaned into his touch, as his thumb traced her lip, drawing her shining eyes to his.

Surrendering to his darker impulses, he captured her lips in another stolen kiss. The scent of roses clung to her skin, and he wondered how it had escaped his notice until now. She tasted of warmth and honey, but if she had tasted of ash and blood, he would not have hesitated—now that she was so close—so pliant under his touch. “Ask another,” he murmured against her mouth, grinning even as she pulled away in horror.

“Are you mad?” Obstreperously she shook her head, her eyes round with disbelief. “I’ll not torture you again! No question is worth such suffering.”

“You did not torture me. Furthermore, I believe I promised you answers.” Drawing her closer, burying his face in her neck with a chuckle, he waited. Savoring the feel of her twisting against his touch, he nosed her hair and ear, tickling her with his breath. “You smell divine.” The verbal caress trickled over his tongue to trace along the edges of her heightened senses.

When her response wasn’t immediate, his teeth grazed the side of her neck making her gasp. “Your questions, Sarah.” Again, she said nothing, her strained breaths the only sign of her discomfort. “I can always make you.” His tone was laced with mirth that belied his threat.

He blew a light breath against her ear, and she squeaked in response, pushing away from him—but it was fruitless—his hold was too strong. A devilish smirk stole across his face before he leaned in and blew another breath, then nuzzling her neck like a spoiled house cat.

Fine strands of untamed hair tickled the sensitive skin under her nose. Her face pinched and she snorted, her arms rising to his chest as she tried to push him away. A fit of giggles erupted from her throat, halting her progress, and she was forced to surrender to the operose laughter bubbling within her breast. This time no morose tears followed, only the melodious bells of her senseless laughter ringing merrily around them.

“Stop!” she squealed, her face aching from the strain of her smile. The relentless tickle of his hair on her face continued to assault her senses, even as her uncontrollable laughter grew painful. “Stop!” Pushing hard against his chest, she jolted as another wave of senseless howling pulled taunt her every muscle. All at once, Sarah was toppling backward, her fingers clutched ruthlessly at his frame, his arms grappled as they fell against the rocks.

The tumble trapped her beneath his lean frame, his knees on either side of her, his hands braced near her ears. It was silent. They were so close, each heavy breath brought the swell of her breasts to graze against his chest as he hovered above her, dark and dangerous. He knew he should move—the precarious position was as dangerous as it was inviting—only he couldn’t seem to command his limbs.

_You are not this woman,_ she reminded herself, as her hands slid with delicious, painful slowness up his neck, tangling her slender fingers in his feather-soft hair. He growled at the gentle scrape of her fingernails, and she let loose the tumultuous breath she had been holding.

Encouraged by her boldness, he covered her mouth with his. Lust built at the base of his spine as the kiss burned red-hot, so consuming he could feel his control slipping with dangerous ease. Still, his mouth slanted over hers again and again, his tongue stroking, taking, loving. Gods, he couldn’t seem to get his fill of her. One kiss would never be enough. What he wanted went beyond this moment. He didn’t want a single kiss, or simply to lie with her once. No, he was beyond that.

Until she surrendered everything to him, he would never be content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have written you an opera... lol... but I did write this!


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**__________________________________________________________**

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_A crystal disappears.  
The stairs unwind.  
Magic dances…_

The crisp breeze was not altogether unpleasant; though it spoke of the promise of the approaching winter, it did not ruin the resplendent curtain of starlight draped above the happy couple. The two were in no rush to make their way to the secret lake, wrapped in the golden euphoria of glad tidings of impending parenthood. The pair had declined the use of their carriage favoring instead the peaceful quiescence of an evening stroll.

Blythe was still wearing the painful, splitting smile from the hours ago, relaxing just enough to maintain pleasant conversation with his pregnant wife. _Thank you,_ he prayed silently, his dark eyes lifting to the heavens for good measure. _Please, let all be well. I implore you, hear my prayers— let this child **live.** _The seriousness of his pleading did not register across his boyish features, hidden well under a jubilant smile and sparkling eyes, conveying a deep elation he did not wholeheartedly feel.

The gentle hum of his wife’s voice was a murmur in the background of his dervish thoughts. He had not meant to ignore her; in truth, he was eager to discuss names and muse over who the child might resemble more in both appearance and temperament. But fear was far more powerful than joy. His fears lingered on the past, and the overwhelming sadness that nearly destroyed Constance after their most recent loss only ten months past.

_“This time is different, I can feel it. I know how mad that sounds, and I cannot explain it. But Blythe, I **know** this child will live.” She assured him moments after breaking the news, admitting that her own fears fueled her silence for five months. “I know I should have told you sooner, but I was so afraid, Blythe, so very afraid.” Her trembling hand wiped that the tears on her cheeks. “But the midwife assures me that at nearly six months I am in no foreseeable danger.” Her watery eyes searched his with wild desperation. “Tell me you are happy, oh please, please be happy!”_

_How could he be anything less?_

_“Of course I am, my love.” He sighed, taking her face between his rough hands he kissed her with fervent abandon. “You promise me you are well? That you are in no pain—” her kiss silenced him, and alleviated more of his worries than words ever could. Her passion fueled his as her hands moved up his arms and into his hair, caressing the skin of his neck as their assault grew more incessant._

A call across the misty cemetery pulled him back to the present, bringing his eyes to the small woman clinging to his arm. “Forgive me, my dear. My thoughts wandered of their own accord. What did you ask?”

Squeezing the bicep below her kid gloved fingers, Constance smiled, not the least bothered by her husband’s confession. “There is nothing to forgive, however, it was not I that called to you.” Her head turned to look back at the humble rector’s cottage. The door stood wide and the smiling Father Simon Elswick waved before moving nearer. “I think we have been spotted,” she chuckled, turning fully to greet the intruder.

“Good evening, Tillens!” The priest beamed, his dark, salted hair shinning in the soft beam of the lantern held at eye level. With the light so near his face, his silver eyes appeared almost white. “How fare you this brisk night?”

“We are well, thank you,” Blythe answered coolly, his gaze falling protectively over Constance as he smiled.

Looking between the pair, the priest quirked a thick brow at them. “You both seem awfully jovial for such an evening. Might I inquire as to the reason? Do forgive me if I am prying; it is one of the many vices I cannot seem to abandon.” 

Blythe inclined his head almost casually to his wife, watching as a bashful smile added a faint blush to her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered, before she looked up at him with an encouraging gleam in amber eyes. Her free hand unconsciously pressed against the gentle swell of her abdomen, as she replied reverently. “I suppose we cannot conceal it too much longer.” A serene bliss settled over her features as she smiled broadly, her eyes now fixated on her stomach. “It seems our little family will expand come the new year.”

The rector’s smile grew brighter. “Well, congratulations! Splendid! Capital news, indeed! My blessings to you both. And of course, should you need anything please do not hesitate to ask.” 

They exchanged pleasantries, and spoke for a moment about names and the pending arrival. The topic did not last long however, before the man turned somber. “How fares the lovely bride-to-be? I do hope you have not had anymore trouble, I have taken it upon myself to stroll past her home these last few evenings, just to be cautious.”

“I can assure you she is safe and well. My wife and I have done our best to ensure it.” Blythe said softly, as though it was some great secret between them. “I must admit we have kept a watchful, albeit strict, eye on her.”

Nodding his understanding, Father Elswick reached forward, briefly patting Blythe’s arm with a comforting grin before he straightened, adding to the man’s avowal. “We cannot be too careful, she will understand in time. We cannot be too careful, as was proved just nights ago, even here in our peaceful pocket of the word there are monsters.” 

A grim expression took hold, the lines at the priest’s mouth becoming more prominent as he frowned. He was dour and sad for a moment, before a kind and sincere gleam softened his face. “Mercifully for Miss. Williams, she has you to watch over her, and keep such abhorrent men at bay. If only more young women were so fortunate; far too many guardians and chaperons are lax in their duties. Were they more diligent in their efforts, there would be far less bastards in the world, of that I am certain.”

Undeterred by their silence, or perhaps encouraged by their smiles, the man continued his degradation of ruined women and rakish men. Adding the obligatory doctrinal mantra of God’s unwavering love and forgiveness, he finishing with a biting reminder of the ever present prospects of eternal damnation. The austerity blatant in his voice solidified how important the impromptu sermon was to the graying man. 

When Elswick finally concluded, much to the relief of the exasperated pair, he added. “Enough of my ramblings; neither of you need lessons in morality.” A forced pulling of lips revealed the crooked, aged teeth in what might have been a smile had his bushed brows not furrowed mendaciously. “It is rather fortuitous that we should meet, as I was preparing to pay you a visit—I have an important message to pass along to a young woman about whom we are all concerned.”

__________________________________________________________

The Goblin King wouldn’t have stopped if she had not started trembling, though whether it was from fear or pleasure he couldn’t be certain. Either way, he knew they walked a tightrope of desire and dread, and one wrong footstep would mean falling into utter uncertainty. She was part of his past, one he had put away, never to be remembered. Now, for reasons he did not understand, she was here and he would be a fool to spoil his second chance by succumbing like a fumbling youth to his lust.

A soft whimper came from deep in her throat. The sensual sound nearly pushed all good reason aside, but he would not allow himself to ruin this small piece of paradise. He lifted himself away, straightening to kneel above her breathless frame. Gods! She was stunning! Her blushed cheeks, and hooded eyes begging for more without a single word, wreathed by disarrayed tendrils of sorrel curls. Even the the spots of trepidation flicking through the haze of her desire made his breath catch and his heart stutter. Had he any less self control he would have her bared before him writhing at his hands, her entire body flushed from his relentless ministrations. 

But he was a master of control. 

A sudden chill settled over Sarah as he moved away, taking the warmth of his lithe body with him. The absence of his touch splashed like a bucket of ice water against the need he had roused so effortlessly within her. _What are you doing, Sarah?!_ Covering her face with her hands, she suppressed a groan of embarrassed frustration against her chilled palms. _Nothing can come of this._ Despite the truth of her thoughts, she could not bring herself to heed the warning.

With lumbering movements she pulled herself up to her feet, swatting at her heavy skirt as though it were covered in dust like a moth-eaten rug. Sarah blinked, trying to catch her breath. Using the cold to calm the rampant flush of her cheeks, she avoided the eyes that had drawn her to take such brazen action. Pretending to fuss with her clothes a moment longer, Sarah took another step away from him.

The subtle movement had not gone unnoticed. Wisely, he said nothing about her attempt to create distance between them when only moments ago her lips had molded to his as he swallowed her aching sighs. Though innocent enough by fae morals, the draconian purity demanded of humans from near infancy must have awakened suddenly, nagging at the recess of her mind. As she continued her feigned removal of dirt from her clothes, he found his own thoughts wandering curiously to hers and what they might be. 

Lissome, the Goblin King unfolded himself from the ground and rose to his feet. His eyes wandered over her, devouring the figure her warm layers could not conceal. How, covered as she was, could he be tempted thusly? Unashamedly, his ego puffed its chest when she shifted under his heated stare, her cheeks flaring an alluring pink as her blush deepened.

“Are you nervous?" he rumbled quietly, desperate to hear the admission.

Chewing her lip nervously, Sarah stepped around him to kneel at the forgotten picnic, her famished stomach aching at the sight of the uneaten food. More than anything, she needed a distraction, lest she fall under his spell once more.

Watching her kneel, he cleared his throat before moving to join her on the pebbled shore. "So, my precious thing," he began, keeping his own hands busy assembling a napkin of food for her. "What other questions are bouncing about in that pretty head of yours?" He halted his movements, his head tilted to the side, studying the linen and its offering with an odd look. Why had he prepared it? He had never done as much for anyone before. Stranger still, he could not remember thinking to do otherwise, as though this weren’t an extraordinary scene, but rather a habitual one. 

Discarding the anomaly, he grinned, offering her the fabric platter spread across one palm. He would dwell on the phenomenon when his time was less occupied— and far less numbered.

Cautiously, Sarah took the linen from him, her hands brushing against the cold fabric of his gloves. _Those hateful gloves! What would it be to have them gone?_ Tossing the thought of his warm fingers tracing across her skin from her mind, Sarah placed the humble meal on her lap. Bringing a small wedge of cheese to her mouth, her gaze neither settling nor wandering from her wished intruder as she began to eat.

“Will you ask me nothing?” 

Mossy eyes met his with fervor, the small v wrinkling between her brows as her head shook in protest. “It’s far too dangerous. I wounded you with my last— ” She stopped, swallowing the panic and guilt crawling at her throat. With a sniff, she whispered, “I won’t ask another.” 

The blonde shook his head, his hands reaching to encompass one of her own. "It isn't dangerous." He paused and glanced away, head tipping in an almost owl-like fashion. "Painful— but not dangerous." Mismatched eyes skipped back to her face, determined. "Sarah, I promised you answers. If it is in my power to answer _any_ question you may have, I _want_ to do so." 

He was not lying. He _wanted_ to do this, and the truth of it slammed into him with torrential force. A tightness pulled at his chest as he frowned. He wanted her to trust him, _needed_ her to, though he couldn’t put into words just why. He lifted his hand, allowing his thumb to trace tenderly along her cheek. “Ask another.”

She had listened well enough, but observed him far more carefully. Tongues could easily lie— her father proved as much— but the body rarely concealed the truth. Be it the twitch of an eye, the clench of a jaw, or the faintest shifting of feet, the body was always trying to expel the barest hint of deception like infection from a wound. Many still tried, practicing as one might the pianoforte or harp, each time growing more proficient than the last. More failed, however, making feeble attempts throughout their lives but never really indulging, their lies simple and clean, while select few mastered the skill, practicing their grand orchestrations of deceit with pride. 

The Goblin King _was_ a skilled liar, but this was no lie.

Still loathe at the thought of causing him undue pain, Sarah could not help the questions blazing to life, demanding to be asked and answered. “As you _wish_.” Deciding upon the most recent, and prevalent issue she complied. “My dreams have become—” staring at her hands, her fingers twisted against one another, her nerves rising. “Become terrifying— horrific.”

“You’re having nightmares?”

Sarah nodded, cautiously. “They have become violent, insidious and so vivid— every touch, every sound, every _smell_. I wake shaking, having to remind myself they are not real.” Her hand lifted palm up into the air, gesturing towards her companion. “I know I must seem ridiculous—you said yourself ‘no harm ever came from a dream’ but—” her shoulders fell, dropping her hand into her lap in defeat. Staring out over the expanse of the lake, Sarah’s lips pinched in perplexed musing as she tried to form a coherent thought. “I must ask— are these your doing?”

“No.” His voice was firm, as he shook his head in denial. “Sarah, I have done nothing to your dreams, save enter them.”

Moisture pooled in her eyes, “Then I _am_ being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“You are not.” A seriousness settled over his features, a welcome sight for her worries. “I admit it is strange.” He paused, searching for answers to the plethora of questions forming wildly with her revelation. Through no fault of their own, mortals had an affinity for forgetfulness, especially where dreams and nightmares were concerned. Bright as she was, Sarah could never cite him with an exact recounting, let alone the minuet details he needed.

With a sudden perk of his head, the king twisted his wrist. A bright, beautiful light shimmered at his fingertips before fading into the perfect sphere of a crystal that he offered to the astounded woman before him. Smiling at his own genius, he waited for her acceptance.

Scoffing at his offering, Sarah leaned away from his proffered hand. Her stare was confused, and filled with disappointment. How could he ask her to forget— _again?_ More importantly, why did he _want_ her to? Sadness coiled in her stomach, tightening the walls of her throat, _How dare he!_ “No— no, I refuse to forget—”

“It isn’t for you.” 

Untangling her fingers, he ignored the hurt darkening her eyes as he placed the orb in her palm, never releasing the crystal from his grasp. “Close your eyes.” He whispered leaning nearer, “think of your dreams as tangible, living things— whatever you like— just imagine them as something that can be _caught._ ” 

Dubious at first, she cast a sideways glance at the wild man kneeling before her. “This isn’t a ploy to make me forget, is it?” 

He laughed lightly, a single, barely audible huff of amusement that only just made it past his thin, smirking lips. “No, my dear, this is no trick. Trust me.” A brightness shone within his eyes, his brows lifting slightly before he placed the softest, barest of kisses against her forehead.

Sarah bit her lip, then caught herself, instead making an effort to compose her features. Straightening, she took a breath, hesitating but a trice, before allowing her eyelids to grow heavy and fall closed.

“Now,” he hummed, the seductive baritone drawing her in like a moth to a flame. He was far too enticing, and she was much too weak to resist his pull. “Bring your dreams to the forefront of your mind, but picture them not as dreams but something else entirely. They can be anything you like, so long as you can catch them, and when you do, wish them into the crystal.”

Within her mind dozens of butterflies swarmed above her, each one infinitely different from the next, and yet so very similar. Some were dark, wicked looking things, with black wings and blood red spots flecked across the delicate surface. Others were beautiful, glittering metallics, and jewel tones that could never have existed outside her imagination. It was beautiful and unnerving. The flurry of color was almost overwhelming, as they fluttered and weaved in nonsensical patterns against cloudless evening sky. 

_Now catch them._

A silver pole with gossamer netting, captained by nothing save the air itself, floated on the breeze. Invisible lines painted against the shifting wings, capturing a small handful with each stroke. Over and over again, the pole glinted against the chilling white moonlight until, with the faintest whoosh, the last of the memories was trapped. A silent wish saw them tittering away within the fabricated cage of shinning glass.

Her eyes opened after the last image faded from existence and she let out a breath, “Was that right?”

Smiling, he pulled the crystal away. “Perfect.” Tossing it high into the air, it burst between them into a million fragments of sparkling powder that evaporated into mist just seconds after. “Now, I can study them at my leisure.”

“Study them for what?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I know I will find _something._ Tampering with dreams takes years of practice, it is difficult, draining, and rather unusual for someone without—” the burning was back, braced on the point of mind-numbing torture. “Without the extensive tutelage I received throughout my life, it would be a foolish undertaking. One risks damaging both the dreamer and their own magic.” 

The impossible girl was worried. 

One could hardly blame her— he was worried too, though he kept his concerns to himself. There was something far greater at play, but the pawns and stakes were still so shrouded in darkness that he couldn’t begin to fathom the endgame. The King of the Labyrinth was nothing if not tenacious. He would find them, whatever it took.

While Sarah could not truly grasp the difficulties of entering and manipulating dreams, she understood from his tone and the look in his eyes, the seriousness of such a feat. The mystery still remained as to why she was chosen, and though she knew the man before her was not altogether forthcoming, he was at least providing some form of explanation, and for that she was grateful.

“It occurs to me that I remain uninjured, _and_ I have managed to answer one of your questions.” Bringing a dark finger to his mouth he rhythmically tapped the pad against his lips, pretending to be deep in thought, a mischievous look shimmered in those hypnotic eyes. Sarah couldn’t help but stare. “Now _that_ is a promising sign.” The tapping stopped with the arch of his winged brow. “I think you’ve earned another.”

“ _Earned_?” She said with a huff, “I don’t want it.” 

“Am I to believe your curiosity has been sated?” Hungrily he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she chuckled softly, her alluring smile far too tempting to resist. Too quick for protest, his lips claimed hers, the kiss was too passion to be decorous, and far too chaste to be improper. Pulling back just a breath, he couldn’t help but grin. “I thought not.” Plucking her hand from her lap he placed a kiss into her palm, “Ask another.” Unable to stop himself, he kissed the pulse point at her wrist, his breath heating the sensitive flesh as her pulse raced. 

Deciding it would be easier to surrender to his request rather than argue against it, Sarah paused, choosing her question with great care. She prayed it was the right one. Swallowing hard, too afraid to watch him suffer, Sarah tentatively asked, “Do others dream of you, as I have? Do they wish for you, too?”

Relief coursed through him; he could answer this. “Yes, others dream of me, and though I can appear in their dreams, I don’t—I haven’t. Not since I mastered the craft.” He answered slowly, testing the temper of the rules. With a gentle smile, his eyes sparked. “Since then, only you have had the privilege, my little puzzle.” He bowed his head, another soft kiss tickling her nerves.

Puffing what she hoped was a relieved sigh, not a breathless moan of wanton desire, her worry ebbed. Sarah allowed herself to languish in the feel of his flesh against hers. At the hot, damp touch of his tongue against her oversensitive flesh, Sarah cried out, pulling herself free. Panting, she tried frantically to ease the fire building in her core. Turning her thoughts from the blonde devil and his wicked tongue, she begged another question.

"Why mine?" 

“You called to me.” He sighed, not in frustration with her, but rather his struggle to explain. "I felt the call of a dream for months. It felt different, stronger. I chose to ignore it, as I do the others, but eventually my own inquisitiveness won out.” He sounded almost far away, his eyes swimming with the memory of that fateful night. “I am not sure why I succumbed to the temptation, but I did and I found you." 

A fondness flooded his eyes as he recalled the moment he realized it was her, _his Sarah,_ back in the Labyrinth. Sharper still, he could still feel the pang in his chest, the rush of adrenaline as the dream faded into mist as she awakened, leaving herself once again a memory. 

“I have called you impossible—a puzzle— and your wishes are the catalyst of that statement. You should not be able to beckon me at your leisure, yet you have.” He met her unwavering, confused gaze. “”When I am summoned it is for different reasons entirely. A wish—" He stopped, feeling the pain creep up the base of his spine, a low burning that simmered against his muscles. "I am called with a wish— only a wish, but Sarah, they are oft—" He groaned against the searing heat building within him, his body tense with warning. "These wishes are often made with insidious intent." 

Only when she was certain he was in no more pain, did she dare pry further. She was panting, nearly out of breath with fear. “ _Insidious intent?_ Do they mean to harm you?”

A soft smile touched his lips at her concern. “No, not _me_.” His eyes grew serious as he tried to convey what little he could. “I am not the subject of a wish, merely the product of one. Those who wish for me very rarely mean well.” The ache had settled at the base of his neck, neither moving nor fleeing as it pulsed against his spine. He would not venture further.

“What do they wish for?” Her curiosity piqued, she treaded further over the eggshells of her eagerness. She did not want to hurt him, but she also wanted answers.

He answered carefully, meeting her eyes with a pointed stare, begging her to understand his limitations. “They offer a trade of—” the last words were chased away with a howl of anguish.

Sarah gasped as his body bowed inward, his muscles straining against the leather armor at his back and shoulders. Her hands flew out to try to brace his fall, and she grunted at the weight of him landed harshly against her. Sweat beaded his brow as he drew sharp breaths through ragged teeth. 

Time crawled by, only a handful of minutes, but they felt so much longer as she held him close, fighting back tears. When she felt him shift within the circle of her arms, her unrelenting grip loosened and he rose to kneel up once more.

“Not that one, I suppose.” Sarah whispered weakly, emotion tainting her voice.

He laughed boisterously, his head shaking as he smiled. “No, not that one.” 

There was a long silence. Eventually, Sarah turned to the meal scattered in her lap. The wheels turning in her brain as she chewed slowly, lost in thought. Deciding to join her, he tossed a morsel beyond his lips, the flavor lost to him as he studied his little riddle. Had their been a clock in the vicinity, the rhythmic ticking would have beaten like thunder against the silence, droning on with maddening slowness. 

Aware of the oppressive, loathsome silence suffocating the companionable milieu hanging dubiously between them, Sarah remained horrendously quiet at his side. Unsated, as he predicted, her interest boiled as the minutes were swallowed within the gaping maw of the night. Even still, as much as she wanted to know more, she could not convince herself to wound him further. 

Yet, was it not _he_ that demanded her questions, reassuring her of his willingness to answer? He was in a bizarrely divulging mood, one that Sarah suspected would never have an encore, no matter how loud the applause. Was she foolhardy enough to beg another? To remain silent? 

Steeling her nerve, Sarah blurted the first thread she could grasp from the thunderous clouds of her mind. Copper tinged her tongue, and only then did she realize she had been chewing her lip. Again. “Why did you want me to wish you back?”

One minute passed, then two, as the thick fog of noiselessness crawled along the shoreline. It felt like hours—days even, as she awaited his answer. Afraid of what he might say, and worse yet what he might not, Sarah stared intently at the cloth on her lap, and the untouched scraps left from her attempted feast. 

Coquettishly, her lashes fluttered as she dared to peek at the man in question with a gasp; he was staring. A pleasant, heated gaze that did nothing but encourage the crimson painted across her face. “You,” he drawled with a lazy, sensual tone, “are very tempting.” A smirk pinched his lips before a full smile flashed his teeth as he turned to hide a soundless laugh.

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m telling the truth.” He corrected. “Were others able to call for me as you do, I would have neither the inclination nor the desire to answer with such haste as I do now. You are the siren I am desperate to see and the riddle I long to solve.” Her quizzical frown begged him to say more. “In short, I wanted simply to see you.”

Her lips curled in a smile before she could stop them, and she ducked her head in a feeble attempt to hide her gaiety. While he made no attempt to address it, she knew he’d seen her reaction with his hawk-like stare, and was equally satisfied.

Scarlet cheeks burned as she lifted the last morsel of meat from her napkin. Faster than she could recoil, he leaned forward, snatching the bite from her fingertips, his teeth grazing the sensitive pads. She gasped, an airy, jagged breath one octave above a moan, as his lips lingered a moment before he shifted away as though nothing untoward had occurred.

He hummed in a low melodic tone, “As I said, _tempting_.” His rapier eyes bored into hers with wicked intent, before smoothing into a contented grin. “Another question that failed to maim me— brave enough to ask another?”

Swallowing the cotton trapped in her throat before daring to answer, still very aware of his nearness. “What were you— how did you occupy your time waiting for my wish?”

“I was at a ball.”

“A ball?” She inquired with far more excitement than he thought necessary for such a mundane and common proceeding. “What was the occasion? Was it beautiful?” 

Infected by her elation, he found himself smiling along with her. “It was very beautiful, though—” he paused, inhaling past the heat radiating up his spine at the thought of his friend’s name. Sighing, he continued with a slightly strained voice, “Though the host is known for his lavish celebrations— this was no different.” The light in her eyes glowed, her intrigue piqued and that gave him rather clever idea. “Close your eyes.” He urged gently, suddenly.

Pausing, a wrinkle kissed her brow before she dutifully complied and he continued. “Imagine large white marble pillars draped with transparent ivory and gold curtains. Lights float and dance with a life of their own above your head, every time you turn to catch a glimpse they glide away to highlight something new. The room is littered with gold gilt, feathers and shimmering jewels. Music rings around you, each note perfectly plucked.” He leaned close, his whisper caressing her ear with each heated breath as he painted the scene. 

“High above you, ivy drips from the ceiling and chandeliers, glinting with pearls and diamonds that catch the shifting candlelight with each movement from below. So long, they touch the bared shoulders of silk-clad women and damask frocked-men twirling over the checkered floor, like swans.” He hummed beautifully, savoring her scent of roses and ink. A strange combination that drove his reason to near madness, begged him to taste, to touch. Pushing away his licentious desires, he pouted. “But alas the extravagance was ruined— they served only mead.”

Sarah snorted, the illusion shattered. “How terrible! However did you manage?” She said with false agog.

“Drinking.”

A fit of giggles burst from her lips, the lilting song of her merriment ricocheted in the clearing before it blossomed into full-fledged laughter. A dimple he hadn’t know she possessed, dented her cheek as her mirth did more for the darkness than a thousand blazing candles. “What was the occasion?” She asked brightly, her genuine interest palpable. 

“The Festival of Bacchus,” he watched for any hint of recognition, and when he was greeted with none he finished, plainly. “A festival celebrating wine and drunkenness. You can imagine the outcome of such a gathering, though with only honey-mead, many of the guests were left rather unsatisfied.” 

“Mead— at the festival of _wine?_ ”

“You understand our dismay— it is very hard to celebrate drunkenness when one can hardly become foxed.” The king smiled, “You know how these events are; one can always find fault with their host, regardless of the efforts made for their entertainment.” 

The light dimmed with the scantest shake of her head, as she blinked several times, looking away. “I can only imagine.”

“I am sure it is hardly different than any others you have—” He stopped short, studying her expression of solemn interest. Turning his head slightly, his eyes narrowed speculatively. “You’ve never been?” he voiced disbelievingly.

She pinched a bashful smile, her shoulders shrugging slightly. “Afraid not.” Sarah sighed despondently, “My father’s _afflictions_ got the better of him before my first season. There are very few gentleman who would consider a scandalous, alcoholic, indebted stone mason for a father-in-law. Let alone his penniless daughter.” 

A wave of pity and resignation crossed her features, but she mustered a pathetic laugh before continuing unadroitly. “I _have_ danced, outside of lessons, a handful of times. Nothing so garish and florid as you described— only simple country dances—” She stopped, her cloddish rambling was painful to her own ears. 

“A fact I would remedy if I could.” He spoke in earnest. “Though I must warn you; such parties are often crowded, hot— stifling. The guests are rude and demanding, shoving others out of the way and fighting like children over the seating arrangements, and lamenting the menu. They are beautiful annoyances that are hardly worth the effort.”

He was lying, or at the very least concealing a fair amount of truth, all in an effort to make her feel less paltry in her misfortune. It was a strange sort of kindness, one that Blythe and Constance were well versed in, but their words were far less comforting than those of the Goblin King. 

“I will have to take your word for it.” 

“For now, at least.” Rewarding her with his seductive smirk, the alluring man found himself searching for the new-found indentation in her cheek with no luck. Wanting to turn the subject, he lifted his chin. “Perhaps you might answer _my_ question?” Without waiting for her reply he continued. “Yesterday, why did you wish me back?”

“Um— well—” How could she explain? Even she wasn’t entirely certain of her motivation, and what she _was_ certain of, she did not wish to admit. Sarah sat for a moment trying to pluck an answer from her discombobulated thoughts. 

_You_ missed him, she was reminded with gale force. Lifting her chin with mock fortitude she spoke truthfully. “I was afraid. I had not been home since the— the _incident_. I was alone and terrified of what I might find behind that door. That was, until my thoughts turned to you.” 

Her eyes flashed to his, the weight of her confession registered in the soft lines around those magnificent pools of blue and green. Her confession changed everything and nothing, the line in the sand was diminishing as they skated along its edge. An eternity passed between one breath and the next, their eyes conveying thousands of unspoken refrains in the infinitesimal space of a heartbeat. Neither attempted to speak, each understanding the fragile power their mutual silence held. 

The heady spell was broken with the crack of a twig echoing within the walls of the forest. It was faint, distant, but they both heard it. Synchronously, their heads snapped to the tree line. Instantly, the Goblin King shot to his feet, appearing suddenly before her, his imposing form shielding her from view. “Were you expecting someone?” He whispered over his shoulder.

“Only Blythe and Constance.” Came her frightened whisper, her skin prickled with unease as she rose to her tiptoes, trying to see around him into the unyielding darkness. “Is something there?” 

The Goblin King faced the trees unflinchingly. His muscles remembered every battle of years past, each waiting on edge for the slightest command. The soldier within him stood at attention. Never one to stand by and watch others fight while he remained in his grand castle, the king spent the better part of his life on the battlefield, earning the respect of his men and the fear of his enemies. 

Instinctively, he tucked Sarah further behind him, one arm curling back to wrap around her waist and hip, he listened. As if answering Sarah’s question, another snap popped in the night, louder now. Closer.

He moved back, forcing Sarah to do the same. Her fingers clutched his arm, he could feel her trembling. “Can you see anything?” She whispered, pressing her cheek against his guarding arm, looking up, her eyes locked on his unwavering expression. 

“No, but I can hear footsteps.” He glanced down at her, then back to the forest. “Stay behind me. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“ _Behind me!_ ” He hissed, his nostrils twitched as his breaths grew shallow. “I promised to protect you, now get behind me!” 

With unexpected speed, the girl darted under his arm and turned to him, her palms planted flat against his chest. Her barest touch sent a flood of sensation rippling through him, but his years of training ensured he remained stoic and unflinching. 

Round, wide eyes lifted to his carnal, warring stare, the heavy crimson returning to her cheeks as mortification burned through her. “I cannot be seen with you.” Her hand lifted to his face, and he leaned imperceptibly into her touch. “Please, it would ruin me— _Please_ —”

He snatched her upper arms in a bruising grip that nearly lifted her from the ground, his stare dark, frightening. “Danger waits at your door and you are worried about a sullied reputation?!” He shook her. Hard. 

“I— it’s all I have.” She cried weakly, her voice hardly above that of a prayer. How could he possibly understand?

“And your _life?_ ” Her eyes curved everywhere but to the man before her. What could she say? They were both right in one way or another. “Does it mean so little to you?” His anger radiated off him like heat from a fire, the edges threatening to latch onto her, consuming her in the agonizing depths of its raging flames.

“You don’t— can’t understand.”

His frown deepened, “No, you are right. To Hell with idle gossip and licentious rumors— I would face it all if it meant my life remained mine.” 

“I don’t have that luxury!”

“I’ll not let you stand here while some—”

“Please! You must go!” Her heart sank, fear of what awaited her in the trees made her heart stop, while fear of her future made her beg him to leave. “Please, please! I cannot be seen with you, it could ruin everything.” 

“No.” He growled.

Under her breath, disbelieving and somber, her sibilated tears of frustration began anew. “I wish you would go.” Looking back up to the stubborn, protective man holding her. “Please, you mu—”

Her breath caught. 

His face contorted. Eyes wild, burning with pain. His lips set in a thin-lined frown, the crease in his brow deepened. His hands lifted from her, and he fell to the ground landing with a _crack_ on his knees. Howling, his back bowed, his fingers burned, and throbbed as his neck craned crudely to the left. 

“No— no.” Sarah trembled, her stomach flipped, nausea threatened to spill contents of her stomach while her world spun. “I asked nothing—” Covering her mouth watched in horror as his body continued to fight against the invisible beast crawling under his skin. Sweat pooled beneath him, his bright, luminous hair now matted and soaked-ecru on his brow. Teeth gnashed and ground as another crack twisted and shook his slender frame, the muscles bulging, the veins in his neck standing at attention.

“You __wished.” The formidable Goblin King whimpered, before with a fluttered flourish and glint of light he vanished. The beautiful white owl ruffled his feathers, a terrible sound emanating from the black beak— he was screeching in pain. Finally ululating the agony he had kept silent for her sake.

With jerking, ungraceful movements, the bird took flight. Rising on the breeze it lifted and fell, swaying and rocking in the air, the white silhouette diminishing the further away it flew until the green eyes could no longer track the fleeting form.

He was gone. She had _wished_ him away. Her careless words nearly killed him— why had she wished him to leave? How could she have known the consequences? Guilt swam through her body, and she swayed on the shoreline, never looking away from the sky, fixated on the tree line where Sarah prayed she could catch a glimpse of the wounded bird.

The pulsing of her erratic heartbeat drowned out the noises of the night, and the scuffled steps crunching on the rocky earth. Deep into the clearing the sound grew louder, heralding the approach of the intruder drawing nearer still.

The footsteps stopped. 

Holding back the scream, the wish that might save her, Sarah turned.

“Richard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I would do anything for love... and I WILL review!


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_Snickers echo in the dark.  
What’s said is said.  
The crib falls silent._

The letter had come by way of a midnight messenger—a young man no older than fifteen, sporting muddied boots, a wide-brimmed hat a size too big, and gloves a size too small. Both the boy and the beast that had carried him were panting and breathless as they stood in the evening mist, awaiting the master of the house.

Richard Lefroy had been enjoying a soothing nightcap before the fire when the thunderous, urgent hammering began echoing through the main hall. Admittedly, his first inclination had been to ignore the missive altogether—until the pound became incessant, frantic, wild.

A disheveled servant carried a haphazardly folded letter on a small silver tray. It was clear the sender had intended the parchment to resemble a common rectangle or square, but the resulting figure had far too many corners and edges to be classified thusly.

A dark red seal, curiously bearing the Church’s signet, and far too many errant splotches of wax, held the ugly thing together—only just. Perhaps the aging priest had died, but even the death of the clergy would not send a rider blazing into the night to beat upon his door. He was an influential man to be sure, but even he was not connected well enough to merit such reports.

Dumbfounded by the mysterious letter in his hands, Richard broke the fragile seal. He made several attempts to decipher the harsh scrawling splattered across the page. The penmanship left something to be desired, and the ink had smudged in some places and smeared beyond legibility in others, as though the sender had forgone blotting and sanding in their haste. Once Richard understood the contents, he read it again—and again.

**_Mr. Lefroy_ **

**_I am writing to inform you of the disturbing events that took place yesterday evening concerning Miss. Sarah Williams._ **

**_First, allow me to assure you that she is well taken care of and has sustained no great injuries to her person; however, that does not mean she escaped unharmed. Miss. Williams is currently under the strict and loving care of Mr. And Mrs. Tillens, who offered her their home until you and her father return._ **

**_Last night around sunset, three men stormed their way into the Williams’ home in an attempt to collect an outstanding debt. It soon became clear there was no money and nothing of value in the home, and the trio demanded payment and attempted to take Miss. Williams by force, claiming that she could be considered sufficient recompense. Mr. Tillens happened upon the unfortunate scene when he came to collect her and sent them on their way before any deplorable acts were committed._ **

**_To be blunt, the men had every intention of abusing your bride. They threatened her, wounded her, and were it not for their overwhelming greed and the fact you would never pay what was owed should they permanently harm her, they would have carried out their heinous crimes. As I understand it, they took her gown as a token of repayment and a promise to “return for the rest.”_ **

**_Rest assured, Miss. Williams remains pure. Please take comfort in the knowledge that she was neither spoiled nor ruined. Mr. Tillens and I have taken great pains to ensure that this matter was kept quiet. Discretion is the paramount of my profession, after all. I can give you my personal guarantee that none, save those involved, are aware of the horrific and rather scandalous incident._ **

**_Forgive me for sending such upsetting news; however, I felt it could not wait another minute. I felt the news would be best handled by yourself as opposed to Mr. Williams— on this issue I think we can both agree._ **

**_I ask that you return posthaste, wherein we can discuss the matter further._ **

**_Safe travels,  
Simon Elswick_ **

He had left before sunrise. 

**********

Bloodied and breathless, the Goblin King collapsed into the plush carpet of his study; his body screamed in agony as he lay twitching in a slow creeping pool of warm crimson. Every blink, every breath was raw anguish—burning, tearing, throbbing. His eyes watered from the pain, and he swallowed back more than a few groans as he put pressure on his ribs, hoping to hold them in place as he attempted to breathe. What had she done to him?

In his transformations, even in the beginning when his bones first shifted and cracked, and his muscles shredded and waned, there was only ever discomfort and extreme pressure. The hounds of Hell could not cause such suffering—dragging a soul thrashing and screaming by the throat into the fiery pit of the ashen abyss—as he felt now, lying broken in his own blood.

A terrible sound echoed against the books and paintings lining the walls of his sanctuary—even the roaring fire seemed to tremble in quaking agitation. Pounding hammered in his skull as the sound continued to pummel and beat against every surface like thundering applause. The dancing flames became too bright; blackness crept along the edges of his vision as the noise boomed and faded all at once.

Wood splintered as the door burst from its hinges, throwing a panicked adviser into the room with a cry. Emere’s heart stopped at the sight of the king writhing weakly, his clothes a tattered mess of soaking rags on the blood-blackened floor. His lungs were labored from the wretched screaming that frayed his vocal chords, thundering against the stones. It was a good sign, if there were any to be had, that the poor man could still breathe amid the crucifying pain of his agonies. 

Emere’s hands were soaked as he ascertained the full extent of the king’s injuries. Skin was stretched and shredded, angry raw muscles and bone protruded beneath the blood, and sweat coated his fevered flesh—the likes of which he had never seen in all his years on the battlefield. Swords and arrows did not cause such abhorrent mutilation as what lay before him, and for the first time in a long while, the war-hardened adviser was frightened.

The girl was to blame—he was certain of it—but how and why was the greater mystery. She was mortal. She possessed no powers, nor stature to do such damage to a normal man, least of all the most powerful king in the Underground.

How could one girl cause so much trouble?

**********

Sarah was hiding something. 

Even in the dark, her stance was far too rigid—her body too still. The timbre of his name on her lips had been wrong. As the distance closed between them, the soft light of his lantern brushed gently over her face, illuminating her tear-burned, beryl eyes. The shadows played against her trembling lips, and he wondered how much of her shivering was due to the ever growing cold.

His pet was frightened.

One could hardly blame her—a woman alone under the cover of night at a secluded lake was inviting trouble. A secret lover, perhaps? He growled at the thought, then dismissed it just as quickly. Sarah Williams was nothing, if not loyal. The woman was simple, soft-spoken, vulnerable—it was as much her nature to stray from the rules of society as it was for her father’s to keep them.

“Hello, pet.” Her eyes flashed to his—a fire he had never seen blazed within them. A moment later, the look was gone, replaced with the horrified expression of before. Frowning, Richard’s brow curled as he studied her from the corner of his eye. Curious, he took a step forward, extending his hand to her as though she were a wounded animal he meant to tame.

Sarah retreated a single step, and it raise his curiosity to new heights. Unable to resist, Richard repeated the movement and again she moved away. “Sarah,” he began, coaxing her like a caged bird. No longer touched by the glow of the lantern, her features were shrouded in a blanket of darkness as her head hung low, out of the reach of the moon.

“I came as swiftly as I was able,” Richard sternly assured her. “Father Elswick was kind enough to send word of your—” His feet and his words stopped short. She was close enough he could see the water pooled against the emerald of her eyes, as they burned red and wild. He had never seen her so distraught—so on edge.

Keen, dark eyes skipped over her troubled face, over her figure, searching for any sign that would give way to the secret her lips refused to release. Confusion tainted his thoughts, the letter told the tale of a traumatized and distraught woman, and yet here she stood on the shores of a secluded lake utterly alone. Curious indeed. 

Lefroy studied her face— it was clear her mind was trapped thousands of miles away while her body remained anchored to the pebbled shore. Sarah might have been disturbed by the assault, but intuition told him this was something entirely different. She was not quite as scared as he had been lead to believe, at least not concerning her attack. And yet there was true, unmistakable terror in her eyes. It was an odd sort of mystery demanding to be solved, and Richard was more than willing to oblige. 

Closing the gap, he clasped her upper arms in a stern, commanding grip. “Sarah!” he shouted, giving her a single shake that made her teeth click. “Damn it, woman! Look at me!”

Her delicate brow wrinkled as she blinked, taken aback at the glaring frown of her fiancé. Sarah gasped, but said nothing. Her throat was tight with guilt, and her stomach sick with worry as her tears began anew. 

"I-I-" She fell against his chest with a sob, her shoulders shaking from the force as her tears soaked into his elegant frock. Try as she might, she couldn't focus on the man embracing her; too consumed with the memory of the screaming owl she had unwittingly wished away. _What have I done?!_

Unseen by the weeping woman in his arms, Richard’s jaw clenched, teeth bared, as he fought against the urge to rage at her. He had no use for her senseless weeping, and her mumbled ramblings breathed into the hand-embroidered silk at his chest. He wanted answers, not this. Disappointment did not sit well with him, but he would wait— bide his time while she unleashed the torrent of emotions over the dam of her control. 

He was good at waiting.

As he predicted, her sobs ebbed into sad hiccups of breath as she fought to regain her composure. He petted her hair half-heartedly in an effort to soothe her back into her usual spirits, then moved so that his mouth hovered just above the shell of her ear. “I cannot help you, pet, if you do not tell me what happened.” 

There was an unmistakable warning in his tone— he wanted answers, but what could she say that would not damn her? Sarah believed in honesty— she had seen firsthand what deceit could do to a man, but what would the truth get her? 

Reluctant as she was to follow down the twisted path of her father, Sarah drew in a breath. Not for the first time since the blonde stranger appeared before her, and certainly not the last, she lied. “You frightened me.” It was pathetic, but all she could think to say. “I expected Blythe and Constance— not a lone figure—” she stopped, not wanting to giver herself away, as her voice grew breathless. The Goblin King called her a poor liar— she prayed he was wrong.

Lifting her head, she revealed the blotched, tear-swollen mess of herself for his scrutiny, terrified he would see through her façade. “Forgive my foolishness. I find I am rather skittish as of late—” her voice faded off with a weak, airy laugh, her eyes never quite meeting his.

_**That** was a lie._

Richard tilted her chin with a gentle fingertip, “I can keep you safe— if you would only trust me.” 

He leaned forward, his expression expectant as moved his mouth closer to hers, only to have his lips press firm against her cheek as she turned.

A muscle near his nose twitched, before his cold, bare hands cupped her jaw, stroking idly along her cheeks. His lips flattened against hers with bruising force, his anger and worry pouring from his flesh into hers as he continued his desperate assault. 

Sarah did not respond.

Ten days ago, the touch of his lips against hers would have stoked the tiniest flame within her— not quite enough to excite her senses and send her heartbeat skyward, like a horse sprinting into the breeze, but at the very least it would warm her from within. His lips would coax a crimson blush up her neck, that flared across her cheeks as she reacted to his the feel of his lips on hers. Ten days ago, his nearness would have been welcomed. 

Tonight it was not.

Sensing her aloofness, Richard sneered against her mouth, biting down onto the tender flesh with an angry growl. She winced, and he straightened, his almost-black eyes surveying the forlorn scene around him with a disapproving glare. 

“This is where you wander off to.” It was not a question. “Tell me, just how long have you been sequestering yourself away to—’ he frowned, looking for the right words to describe the hardly-picturesque hideout, “—to this place?” He finished almost painfully.

Stepping back from his oppressing proximity, she whispered mechanically. "We discovered it as children." Her green eyes caressed the evening scene with loving eyes, her sentimentality tugged at her heart-strings. "I've hardly spent a day away since."

Scoffing, his lips pursed as he turned about, as though another viewing might change his opinion. It did not. The darkness that had settled over the night, obscured whatever beauty may have lingered within her treasured secret. "Not anymore."Richard said with an air of finality as his chest puffed in arrogant objection. "No wife of mine will be caught cavorting in such a cloistered hallow as this." 

His eyes found hers, and he lifted the light once more so she might see the seriousness in his features. "You will not come here again—I forbid it. I cannot believe Blythe has been so asinine as to allow you to come here alone after what happened! God knows what manner of fiends could be lurking in the dark."

"You can't be serious?"

"I am quite sincere." Her fiancé glowered down at her, the austere expression wrinkling his brow. “Why in God’s name would I allow my wife to return here of all places? What if you were found?”

Unable to stop herself, Sarah stepped back from him, barking a dark laugh of aporetic gall. “No. No—you cannot take this place from me!” The anger fueling her words faded into a doleful, breathless whisper. “Please, you can’t.”

Had the light not been lifted so near his face, the sudden darkening of his muddied eyes would have gone unnoticed—but Sarah saw, and her breath caught. 

“I can, and I will.” Richard’s voice remained cool and sharp as a blade as he leaned imperceptibly closer. “Now, the Tillens are expecting your swift return, and we have tarried here quite long enough. Shall we?” He extended his free arm, waiting poised for her acceptance as though he expected nothing less.

Wrinkling her delicate nose, Sarah side-stepped him, burying her arms within the folds of her cloak as though they might shield her from his touch. “Please, you don’t understand what it means to me—to Blythe and Constance!” Her eyes darted everywhere at once, desperate to find anything that might dissuade him, but her frantic mind could settle on nothing to help her cause. “Please! I beg you—”

Richard turned roughly on his heel, grabbing her arm with crushing force. A sharp wail pierced the frigid night air as she stumbled forward, her free palm flattening against his chest. “I’ve no intention of hurting you, Sarah. Do not give me reason to.”

Forcing a discontented breath from his lungs, Lefroy straightened, rolling his neck, the vertebrae crackling noisily under his skin. He watched as the petrified woman clutching at his lapels rapidly blinked the water from her eyes, struggling to grasp his words and swallow the protestations trapped on her tongue.

“You are mine.” Those three words damned her. Growling viciously near her ear, his breath bit against her icy flesh, as his fingers dug deeper into her wool-encased flesh. “A wife is expected to honor and obey.” He pulled back the faintest breath, his eyes daring her to argue. She didn’t. “Have I made myself clear?”

Sarah visibly trembled as the world spun with sickening speed—her vision blurred from the pain and terror rising against her throat. Her heart burned painfully behind her ribs, the wild tattoo making her nauseous. Swallowing hard, she nodded silently, her salty tears rolling into the crest of her lips.

The faint murmur of warning she had ignored, drowned out by the voice of reason and self-preservation, began howling—screaming—in the recess of her mind, demanding her attention. _What have I agreed to? What choice do I have—the poorhouse? Debtors prison? The streets?_

Had she traded one Hell for another?

__________________________________________________________

Uncertainty was a plague—a sickness—formed when a single idea became infected by doubt, festering until every thought was contaminated with overwhelming paranoia and dread. It was a disease of the mind that, once contracted, was nearly impossible to ignore and harder still to cure.

Constance knew this, and yet she still tried to rid her mind of the parasite worming its way through her crumbling walls of certainty. She couldn’t stifle the pestiferous unease nagging at her nerves. It was silly to be worked up over something she could neither place nor explain.

She was far too sensible—too rational for illogical worry.

The rather serendipitous appearance of the priest whilst crossing beside the rectory was under no circumstances strange or unusual. The swift and rather surprising return of Richard Lefroy was not altogether remarkable after the unfortunate events surrounding the woman that connected them. There was nothing untoward about either situation, yet Constance could not shake the fog laden with augur from clouding her better judgment.

But as the night wore on, the sensation only worsened. Even her sleep had not been left wholly undisturbed as she tossed and turned until the sun’s rays stretched their golden fingers to paint the world in soothing light. Try as she might, Constance could not surrender to sleep, save for a few stolen minutes when the weight of her eyes was too strong; then, she dreamt fragmented dreams filled with worry and dread until she awoke with a start. She listened as hour after hour ticked away, their melodic chimes mocking her as slumber flitted just out of reach.

Irascible, Constance forwent any notion of sleep, choosing instead to sit by the humble fire with the curtains drawn, basking in that perfect morning glow. As she sat before the stout hearth, attempting to quell her pestiferous mood, the back of her neck continued to prickle with awareness—of what, she still could not say. Her patience had worn thin as she lowered the intricate needlepoint to her lap and allowed her eyes to close. Her weariness was equal parts sleeplessness and the fatigue of genuine distress.

_What have I to be worried about?_

Distractedly, she brushed her hand across the curve of her ever-rounding stomach, her mind wandering. Constance knew, the way all mothers inexplicably know, that the small life growing inside her was safe—though she could not explain that either. If it wasn’t the babe—Sarah.

_But why?_

Had it been wrong to allow Sarah’s fiancé to bring her safely home after everything that had transpired? _No, of course not! She was safe with Richard!_ Constance reassured herself, plucking up her work and resuming her arduous task. The act of plunging the needle through the fabric over and over as the image grew more distinct lulled her away from her troubles. Consumed with the meticulous motions and worn from a lack of sleep, she did not hear the approaching footsteps, nor the door as it creaked open on the hinges.

“You told him.”

With a shriek, Constance jumped, the needle pricking the tender pad of her thumb. Suckling the wound, she turned to face the girl lurking in the open doorway. Red rimmed, mossy eyes swam above dark purple pools of exhaustion, surrounded by white flesh, marred only by ruddy tear-stained cheeks. The mass of her curls hung haphazardly down her back in a mess from the torrent of her tortured sleep. She had never looked worse.

“Sarah! You startled me.” Clearing her throat with a chuckle, Constance motioned to the seat opposite her with a gentle smile. “Please, join me.”

The ghost of a woman clung to the door frame, her fingers clutching at the molding with Herculean force. Long, slow blinks accompanied her trembling breaths as she whimpered almost silently, her head dropping softly to rest upon her hand. “You told him.” The broken whisper barely reached her ears, uttered with such tenebrose heartbreak, Constance felt ill.

“Who?” Searching her brain, she tried to make sense of what she heard. “Told who, what?” Without warning, her thoughts returned to the terrible dread that had driven her from the comfort of her bed. What had she done to make the poor girl so laconic and dolor? Had Richard done something untoward? Richard! Suddenly, she understood—the _Who was Richard!_

“You mean Richard? Has he done something?” Bark-brown eyes grew round, her tiredness vanished instantly. “What happened, Sarah?” Constance asked, a deep frown creasing her forehead severely.

Anger, hurt, and betrayal flashed against Sarah’s puffed and reddened eyes before—with a blink—it was gone, replaced with a terrible emotionless gaze. “Why did you not come for me?” The hard swallow at her slender throat was the only sign of her distress as she remained a statue at the door. “Why send him?”

“We did come for you. Blythe and I were on our way when we happened upon both men,” the woman defended quickly. “They were looking for you.”

Not a word escaped Sarah’s lips, red and raw from the hours she spend gnawing on them in her worry. Yet her face divulged what her voice would not say; the twitch in her nostril, the fast clench of her jaw, and the slight narrowing of her swollen lids was proof enough she did not believe the woman’s short explanation.

“Father Elswick sent word to Mr. Lefroy after what happened—he rushed back as swiftly as his horse would carry him,” the gravid woman replied sharply, annoyed that her word was being unduly questioned. “He rushed back for you.” Pursing her lips, she looked away, willing the tetchiness to subside before she continued. There was no reason for her to be so on edge, and yet, she was.

“We happened first upon Father Elswick as we passed the cemetery. He inquired after you, explaining that he had written Mr. Lefroy about the attack and urged that he return home.” Constance had hoped her tone would be less brusque, but even to her own ears, it was involuntarily severe and caustic. “When Lefroy discovered our home was empty, presumably because we had left to retrieve you, he went straight to the rectory. You can imagine the rest.”

After a moment, her strong shoulders fell and her eyes closed. “He was so worried—we only wanted to help. From what I understand of it, Elswick painted a rather descriptive picture of your attack and Richard was led to believe you to be in far worse condition than was true.”

Her lips turned down in a disapproving frown; her eyes opened as her head lifted slightly. “I am not sure it was appropriate for the priest to pen such a letter—but I suppose he was doing what he thought was best. Neither Blythe nor myself thought to do so.” Sighing, she set her features again into that easy, apologetic grin. “The man was near begging when we finally told him where and how to find you. He is your husband, I thought—”

“He is not my husband!” Sarah hollered, moving into the room. Fresh tears streaked down her cheeks as her lips trembled furiously. “He is not—” Gasping as her breaths became ragged pants of heated rage, she sniffed, her eyes squeezed painfully as she gritted her teeth. “Not yet.” It was nearly inaudible, a defeated breath as the world seemed to crush her beneath it. 

She was not Sarah Lefroy—not yet. Eight days remained before her life ended and a new, stranger future began. It had seemed so far away and so very near all at once, like a suffocating void with no floor and walls that touched the clouds of Heaven and the brimstone of Hell. The waning fortnight had been the sweetest torture she could never have imagined, and never wanted to forget—the barest scrap of crusted bread to a dying man. 

Nausea choked her as she waded through the inevitability of the future she had secured, laid carefully brick by brick until, at long last, the end of the road rose up to meet her. Now suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to destroy it. I cannot do this! Her hand clutched to her breast, her ululations silent. _No! NO! I cannot do this!_

Constance had shifted to face her more fully, confusion plastered across her delicate features. Guilt curdled in the pit of her stomach, but she pushed it aside with a heavy heart. There was more to this than an unwanted visitor at the lake, but had her life depended upon the answer, she would have died searching for it. What are you hiding, Sarah?

White-knuckled, Sarah pushed her fist to her mouth as she tried to quell the hurricane coursing through her veins, threatening to burst the pathetic dam of her control. She was dizzy and far too warm as a terrible chill snaked up her spine, making her shiver painfully where she stood. It was all too much! _I cannot do this! I can't!_ Plangent wheezes forced her to her knees, her vision swimming as she vehemently fought to regain command. She was a child caught in a storm as wave after perilous wave dragged her further beneath the raging depths of her future.

“Sarah!” Constance was at her side the moment her limbs touched the floor, her arms wrapped protectively around Sarah’s slight, trembling frame. Rocking her to and fro like a screaming infant, she cooed hushed words as a balm to her wounded heart. Over and over she repeated the gentle phrases as she smoothed the wild tendrils away from the weeping girl’s face. “I am sorry I told Richard about the lake—”

“He took it,” Sarah mumbled flatly, her voice weak and rasped.

Caught unawares, Constance blinked rapidly, her eyes falling to stare at the mound of curls resting beneath her chin. “He took what, dear?” Her hand resumed the soporific strokes as the girl began to calm, leaning more heavily against her.

Obdurate, and almost impersonal, the hoarse voice scratched a short reply. “The lake. Richard took it from me.” A tremble began at the back of her words. “He has forbidden me to return.” There were no tears, but her eyes burned at the memory. A sharp pinprick ached in her breast at the loss of her beloved sanctuary and the memories made on the pebbled shore.

_It’s no less than you deserve— not after what you did._ The thought came unbidden, shocking and unwelcome into her aching mind. The voice a sinister version of her own, like a snake sinking its poison deep within her veins. _This is the punishment for your carelessness. You hurt him so that your engagement would hold true. You alone are to blame!_

“He forbade the lake, are you sure? Perhaps you misheard—”

“No.” Sarah was firm. _I cannot do this, I—_ violently she shook the thought away as she had hundreds of times before. em>You can and you **will.** Swallowing thick, she resisted the urge to touch the tender, black and green flesh his fingers had marked with their warning. “No, Constance, he was quite clear. ‘No wife of mine will be caught cavorting here.’ I could not change his mind.”

Constance tried to reply, her lips forming soundless words thrice over before she found her voice, quiet as it was. “I am sorry—this is all my fault. We should have come for you ourselves.” Her head shook as if she couldn’t believe it herself. Her decision to include Lefroy in their secret rendezvous point had seemed so harmless only hours before. How could she have known it would all turn sour?

But she had known, hadn’t she?

That strange sense of foreboding that even still she could not shake from her entirely had been her warning, and she had pushed it aside, claiming it to mean nothing at all. “I am sorry.” She placed a kiss against the tangled curls before pulling her closer into her palliating embrace.

Sarah raised her head, just enough so that her green eyes could look squarely into those compassionate, apologetic ones beside her. “Thank you.” She gave a wan smile, the barest lightness lifting her heart, but not quite enough to quell the overwhelming darkness stabbing at her heart.

The heavy expression did not go unnoticed, nor did the pleading hidden deep within those green eyes. The girl was desperate to spill the putrid secrets boiling within her; the mendacious occults threatened to destroy her from the inside out. “There is something else, isn’t there?” This was no sibilated thought spoken on the whims of fancy, but honest and pure conviction bleeding into the question. “Please, tell me.”

Constance watched the countless emotions swell and contort the disarrayed and crumpled brunette in her embrace. Sarah was hiding something. With newfound scrutiny, Constance looked at her—truly looked—and suddenly she saw: not what the girl was hiding, but the effects of the secret she was resolute to keep. The once bright green, jewel-like eyes were not hovering above purple bruises of fatigue from one single night without sleep. No, this was the building crescendo of repeated nightly disruptions.

The dreams. When had she last heard her speak of the alluring stranger with strange eyes? Were her dreams still haunted by the man that stole her breath with every retelling, or had the dreams changed somehow? Where she was captivated by intrigue and fascination, was she now scurrilous and disturbed?

“Whatever it is, I shan’t tell a soul.”

More than anything Sarah wanted to confess—to confide in Constance all that had transpired in the brief window of Richard’s absence. Temptation, far different than that which surrounded the Goblin King, teased at her illogical, tumultuous imaginings, promising rain to the desolate drought of her newly clandestine existence.

Suppressing the drubbing need to bare all, Sarah closed her eyes and nearly cried out as the image of the screaming, wounded owl flashed in her mind. The howl of his cries terrorized her ears, as though he was there beside her, the insidious snapping of bones the final note in the symphony of her memories.

The sound of Constance’s continued reassurances pulled Sarah from the brink of panic and hysteria, locking them away within the walls of her subconscious. Calming, the torrent of her thoughts slowed as logic took hold. The wish had been an accident—how was she to know it would rip him away from her? Sarah never meant to hurt the ameliorating man that had changed her life with his miraculous arrival, he had to believe that. She hoped he would.

“I do trust you,” Sarah finally answered, her eyes fixed on the intricate Persian rug laying beneath her. Resolve settled over her, soothing the rampant beating of her heart to its usual tattoo. “There is nothing more to tell.” Her life would resume its course; her two weeks of freedom had come to an abrupt and bitter end. “Please forgive my hysterics—I accepted Richard’s proposal and the conditions therein. It is as you’ve said, it could be much worse.” Lifting her chin, she spoke resolutely: “I made my bed, and now I must lie in it.”

Hours later, alone in her beautiful, borrowed bed, Sarah allowed her thoughts to drift and linger on the Goblin King—the mystery from her dreams whom she had pleaded and cursed in her darkest moments, and thought of in all other—the man who had kissed away her pain and awoken a strength in her she had never known existed.

The impossible man with mismatched eyes was the secret she could not afford to lose.

Sarah would never tell a soul about the striking blonde and the lakeside visits. Those memories would be kept within an imagined hat-box, locked deep within her mind where no one would ever find them—where no one could dare to look.

As the last of her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dampening the down pillow tucked beneath her head, Sarah offered a silent prayer for the wounded man she had foolishly wished away.

The man she could never wish back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You know the drill! XOXOXO


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_Thirteen…_  
Twelve…  
Eleven… 

The king would live.

For three days the fact had been a mere question, whispered behind closed doors, where the grief-maddened adviser would not hear the fearful assumption. He needn’t be told the extent of the injuries to understand the concerns of mortality; the state of the bedclothes was enough to churn his doubt, stained and muddied as they were. Beneath them, where the trembling, pale form clung to the proffered warmth, lay the full recollection of the king’s horrific tale.

Magic had its limits, and try as they might, the healers could not erase the damage the forced transformation had caused. Administering herbs and draughts with determined care, the concoctions could do nothing to aid his recovery, but rather they served to induce sleep and ease the searing pain ripping through to the marrow of his bones. The king was far too weak, too damaged, to draw upon his own powers and hasten the process, leaving him to mend at a mortal’s pace— were he to mend at all. 

Had he been mortal, he would have met his end six days before, lying beside the hearth, screaming atop the deep pool of crimson. Had he been anyone other than the most powerful ruler in the Underground, he would have died yesterday, leaving his throne with no heir and the Labyrinth to the Faceless. 

The king would suffer through eternity before he allowed his crown to fall to another—he would even venture so far as to break the rules to which he was so intimately bound. Hour by endless agonizing hour, the days moved one into the next, as he fought against the looming shadow of his own demise. He could feel the tendrils of death draped around his neck like the course fibers of a noose, gnawing at the straining flesh. Despite his whimpered odiums, the healers continued to pour potion after potion down his throat, lulling him into the abyss of sleep where he might find some semblance of refuge.

Seven days of hellish convalescence passed and though the king’s condition had not improved, it had yet to worsen. The hours ticked away, crawling across the sky until, as the sun began to sink into the horizon, the fever finally broke. He was not healed, but death would not claim him.

_He will live._ Emere recited the words as he remained uncomfortably posted in the black, leather armchair nestled beside the bed. The memory of the wounds, gaping and monstrous, haunted him with every blink, and his dark eyes had yet to fully close as he stole what little rest he could. Mired on the shore of rage and nauseating fear, his molars ground together with jarring force as the silver, stress-weather man loosed a shuddering breath. Though he had no proof, nor acknowledgment of the fact, he knew without doubt, that the girl— _the riddle—_ was somehow responsible for his friend’s anguish. 

Unable to remain still, Emere strode to the bedside table and tossed a fresh cloth into the waiting basin with undue force. The fabric groaned as he twisted the excess water from its pores, as though the small scrap was the throat of an enemy. The final drips pulled him back, and he sighed as the weight of his unease settled achingly in the pit of his stomach. Though the danger of fatality had passed, the fever had returned, burning like wildfire atop the shivering nerves, despite their best efforts. He will live. He will live. Repeating the mantra, he gently placed the cool, damp cloth against the heated flesh of the blonde’s furrowed brow. 

Curiously, the man began to twitch as the fabric met his sweat-dampened skin. A pained, gasping groan pulled from his chapped lips as his eyes moved frantically under his lids. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, his muscles taut and straining until thin blue veins bulged against the greyish-white skin. The once-pristine sheets wrinkled in his unrelenting grip as his teeth clenched, threatening to shatter from the force. 

With a snarl, his head trashed against the pillows as he bellowed an unintelligible cry into the cavernous room, the sound ricocheting painfully against the carved, stone walls. Again and again he called out, the words lost in the moans and whimpers of his agony, the sound growing to an unbearable pitch. Another scream roared about the room, threatening to shake the foundations with its pain, the sound grating on tired and worn chords, until it faded into silence.

He lay there, body bowed and taut, his chest heaving with each hiss of breath dragged forcefully through gritted teeth. A fresh sheen of sudor clinging to his reddened flesh, matting the naturally wild hair in dark-flaxen clumps against his temple, his ear, his throat. A long, low moan slid between gulps of air as he trembled from exertion, the damaged sinew unable to support grueling demands of his fitful dreams. Just as quickly as his torment started, it finished, leaving the formidable ruler a whimpering shell of limp limbs and broken bones.

Eyes round in horror, Emere watched with bated breath as the nightmare took hold, the fear once again rising to suffocate him where he stood. Finally, when it was over, he fell into the wingback chair, scrubbing his face with his hands until it felt raw. He remained that way for some time, before pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace. 

A week serving as both distraught friend and vigilant nursemaid had taken a significant toll on his person. It was hard enough keeping his eyes open for longer than an hour or two, but his deepest fears crept into his dreams, jolting him awake before he could succumb to slumber. Weary as he was, the adviser would not allow anyone to relieve him of his post, determined to the first person the king saw when he finally awoke with some level of coherency. Far too many questions needed answers, and he would be damned if he weren’t the first to claim them.

It would be another six days before he got his wish.

__________________________________________________________

The biting cold woke her. 

Violent tremors wracked her slight frame, shooting up her spin and back into her naked toes. Why they were bare was a much a mystery as her location. She lay on stone, the unforgiving surface siphoning the her vestiges of warmth. It was dark— too dark to see more than the pale hand trembling near her frozen lips. Even her ragged breaths were not enough to heat the frigid flesh— even her lungs seemed to be coated in frost.

Beyond her own tumultuous gulps of air, there was a faint stirring of sorts, small sounds that seemed to becoming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her mouth was empty, but she tasted the metallic tang of copper, and the slightest movement of her jaw, and the turn of her neck split her head in two. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry as the pain burst around her skull, leaking into the sockets of her eyes, where her tears dripped into the darkness. 

The sharp, needling pain returned; her extremities were numb— almost, save for the piercing bite that seemed to cut through the haze. It was a strange sensation: the stinging cold, a balm of warmth and the foreign tickle along her flesh. Wincing, she attempted to pull her knees closer to her chest, but her body could not curl any tighter. The movement shifted her feet and the stinging, burning stab began anew, and she was unable to contain her mewling cry. 

A scuffling near her exposed knee made her gasp as another faint brush along her fingers forced her to scream. Dragging herself to sit upright, her arms wrapped around her knees as she choked on her tears, trying to ignore the throbbing sting left by blunted teeth. 

Against her will, she burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am thrilled by the response to this story! My little plot bunny has been hopping nonstop in my brain for years! I love you all! Please leave a comment or kudos! XOXO


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_Thirteen…  
Twelve…  
Eleven…Ten_

Curious.

It was the only word appropriate to the girl hunched over the parchment, not thirty feet from his own workspace. Blythe couldn’t help but watch her. She was neither listless, nor woolly, and yet her silence screamed around the room as she continued, head bowed, stalwart and sedulous. Even from his vantage point, seeing only her profile, the heavy bruises of exhaustion and weariness were evident beneath her mossy eyes. 

_Had she still not been sleeping?_

Though both her father and fiancé had returned from their illustrious retreat full of godforsaken indulgences, Sarah had yet to remove herself from the borrowed bedroom at the end of his hall— and he was glad for it. Neither he nor his wife held any grievances at her continued presence; in fact, they rather preferred her in their home than the misery of her own. 

An operose sigh escaped the girl in question as she swiped her hand across her brow, pushing the curling wisps away. That unremarkable motion drew his eyes to her small— clean— hands. Where were the stains so often left behind from her work? Where were the speckles and spots that always made their way into her lap? Not that wanted her a mess of feathers and ink— but the lack of such was curious. Were he someone— anyone— else, he would have given little thought to her sudden pertinacity, and simply been grateful for her expounded efforts. But he was worried— or at the very least, bothered by that curious behavior.

Unsure of himself and the best course of action to ease his concern, Blythe rubbed his hands free of the slick oil left from the press, his focus still locked on Sarah. He took notice of the untouched tray waiting atop the pending stack marking the corner of her desk— he couldn’t recall the last time he had seen her eat. In five days, she had dined with them only once, electing instead to take meals alone, complaining of headaches or fatigue, or attending to prior obligations. The majority of her free hours were divided between Mr. Lefroy and the demands of his vicious, vindictive aunt. The Tillens couldn’t have seen her less had they arranged it themselves.

Frowning, Blythe silently cursed his own neglect and stupidity. Sarah was wasting away under his very roof and he had only _now_ taken notice! 

How could he have been so blind? 

True, he had observed her standoffish behavior as well as her diffidence, but even now he would be hard pressed not to attribute it to premarital nervousness. She was, if one were to be ruthlessly trenchant, selling her beauty— her virtue— to pay her father’s considerable debts, though Blythe would never be so crass to admit such a thing. She should be terrified, and what could he say to assuage her fears— there is more to life than love and happiness? He scoffed at the thought.

Glancing away from the forlorn woman still studiously bowed over her desk, Blythe scrubbed a hand down his face as his lips pursed. Her despondency had come in quick succession to Lefroy’s return and his banning of her only sanctuary. That command had destroyed all hope of an amorous match between them. Though Sarah had never claimed an attachment to her fiancé, Blythe had seen a certain warmth growing with determined slowness between them, and try as he might, he couldn’t help the hope bubbling in his chest at the idea of her happiness. 

But Sarah was not happy. 

She was miserable. She was a shell of the woman, the sister he loved dearly, and deep within his gut, whispering at the back of his mind was a warning he did not understand. He was looking through a dense fog to catch the moon above the horizon, reading through smudged and broken spectacles. The picture, the words, unclear no matter how hard he stared. 

He was certain only of his trepidation.

_Nothing lasts forever— Sarah will make her own happiness,_ Blythe promised himself as he plodded across the room. This odd feeling, this foreboding was simply the product of his brotherly concern, nothing more. Soon enough, after the Shriving and consequently the wedding, his world would lose the overwhelming sense of unease and dread. 

**********

_Delicious heat rained through her like falling stars as his lips mapped the path from the hallow of her throat to the tender flesh behind her ear. He nibbled and tasted— teased until she gasped, trembling both hot and cold. Her palms pressed firm against his chest her fingers curling and loosing with each breath. The pressure against his frame ebbed and swelled as her mind debated pushing him away or dragging him nearer still._

_“Sarah…” he murmured against her heated flesh. Shuddering under his relentless ministrations, all coherent thought fled the instant his lips claimed hers once more, and she dared not move lest she break the spell. Instead, she succumbed to the excruciatingly sweet taste of his passion as their kiss deepened. His tongue, soft and velvet, was warm as his hands cupped her face restricting her movements to suit his desire. Tension built within her like a powerful storm over the ocean, the electric tingle racing throughout her limbs, curling her toes as she whimpered against him._

_A brush of air danced across her face as he pulled back. Her body moved to follow, only to be stopped by the reverent touch of his forehead to hers. A gentle puff of breathy laughter escaped her kiss-swollen lips as she failed to bite back a shy smile. Peaking up through her lashes, her eyes swam with want, locked with the mismatched pools that weakened her knees and stole her breath._

_The fingers caressing the delicate tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck grew bold, strong. Rough. The straight edge of his nails dug into the sensitive flesh with stinging, bruising force. She whimpered and tried to pull away, but he was too close, too strong. Tighter and tighter he dug into her skin, threatening to draw blood._

_“Stop!” She cried, her tears burning a hot path down her cheeks as she struggled to be free of his cruel grip. “Please! Please!” she sobbed, her eyes shooting back to his face, pleading for reprieve—only to be met with flashes of red. Blood._

_He was covered in the warm, metallic substance that seemed to percolate from everywhere and nowhere, dripping into the pool at his feet. The king released her suddenly, and she stumbled back as he fell to his knees clutching her skirts within his bloodied grasp. Snarling, he pulled the heavy cloth to his face, smearing his lifeblood into the seams._

_Helpless, her hand flew to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her cries as the king ululated his agony. “WHY?!” he bellowed. Never had a more plangent question been asked, nor with such dolor. “SARAH, WHY?!”_

_A loud crack ripped against the air. The material between his hands tore—his body convulsed as he shrieked against the pain, his back bowed, the veins strained at his neck, every sinew pulled taut like marble. He twitched then writhed on the earth, every move painted more of his blood beneath him. His muscles twisted and popped, his bones cracking, and in a flurry of feathers and shimmering light, his operose howling crescendoed. A twisted, ugly hand lifted, the bent fingers stretching tortuously as he slithered nearer. The mangled body trapped between transformations roared like a demon escaped from the depths of Hell._

_The tumultuous pounding in her heart ricocheted painfully in her ears as she stumbled away from the creature with uncertain steps. Her head feebly shook in a silent, tearful protest. “No…NO!” Tears thick enough to drown her collected around her hand as she crushed it against her lips. The salty-hot moisture dripped through her fingers, sliding to her wrist where it trilled steadily to the earth. “I’m sorry,” she wept, dragging rough, unsteady breaths into her lungs. “I’m sorry!”_

_“WHY?!”_

“NO!” Sarah screamed into the darkness of her room as she tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap of sheets and limbs. Laying her palms against the chilled polished wood, she sobbed her anguished dream into the wrinkled linen, leaving a damp spot beneath her reddened eyes. “I’m sorry,” she plead into the emptiness of her room, begging the memory desist. “I’m sorry.”

The nightmare had not changed since that fateful wish not six nights before. The memory of his cries was the eternal phantasm she would never forget. Her fist clenched, knuckles white as she loosed her long-overdue bellow into the bundle of fabric surrounding her. She was to blame. Her words— _her wish—_ destroyed him.

_What have I done?_ A whimper slid between her once rosy lips, colorless now, echoing into the void. She willed herself to move, to scream, to do anything other than remain immobile, weeping in the remnants of her bed. Sweat glistened at her temples, the hairs raising at the nape of her neck as her chest heaved with each ragged and painful breath. The unrelenting hand of panic overwhelmed her, its icy fingers digging into the tender flesh of her neck making her veins protrude beneath her skin.

_Dear God, what have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!_

Unable to contain the hurricane of emotion flooding within her, Sarah pushed away from the tangle of sheets, rising on all fours as she tried to break from her chains. With a yelp she fell back on to the floor, kicking frantically, until regaining enough purchase to surge to her feet. Thrashing, Sarah nearly collided with the ornate bedpost as she awkwardly detached herself from her luxurious prison.

Sweat beaded along her temple as the room began to roast her within its pulsing, thundering walls. Trapped within the ever-shrinking tomb, the walls threatened to suffocate her between the floral-printed paper and dark paneling. Her salty tears streamed along her cheeks as she stumbled back, crashing into the door with a cry. Gasping, she turned, her hands slamming against the wood as she struggled to find the knob; her nails scored the snow white paint searching until her fingers brushed the glass handle.

With no destination in mind, Sarah flung open the door with abandon, bolting into the corridor. Flying down the staircase, she wound through the halls until she came face-to-face with the servants’ entrance at the back of the kitchen. She halted, her tumultuous breaths the only sound echoing around her. The air was still too close. Too stagnant. Blackness crept into the edge of her limited vision, desperate to consume her.

Trembling, her fingers fumbled with the door—the locks impeded her progress. After what seemed like an eternity contained within a single minute, the door opened, and she was greeted by the brumal breeze seeping through the light muslin of her nightdress. She was ill-attired, and as the cold sunk deep into her core, the thought to turn back and bury herself beneath the still-warm covers and forget such foolishness clawed at the recess of her mind.

She should turn back.

She didn’t.

Drifting into the night, her steps were silent against the frosted flagstone. For a moment she felt nothing. Not the burn of the ice under foot, nor the gelid air against her cheek. Too consumed with the nightmare of her guilt to notice her own discomfort, Sarah’s eyes darted to the blackened sky as though it could soothe her woes.

“Please forgive me.” Sibilated desperation bled through her words. “Please—please,” Sarah wept, her voice uncertain and weak. Overcome, her arms wrapped her stomach, her slight frame curling smaller as she fell to her knees with a stinging crack. “Please! I n-never meant to h-hu—hurt him!” she choked, her tongue stumbling as her voice caught. “Dear God, let him live. Let him live! If I had known—Please.” It was a gentle demand. A plea. A wish.

Crimson feathers flashed in her mind; the wet crunch of bone reverberated against her skull as her nightmare started anew. Had she done the unthinkable, had she killed him?

She would not make a wish. Her desperation was creature all its own, demanding her undivided attention as it whispered in her ear. **_He will be lost to you forever, unless you wish._** _I cannot, not after last time! **You nearly killed him—or perhaps you DID.**_

_No! NO!_ Her hands flew to her ears, her nails cutting crescents along her icy flesh.

_**You killed him. You killed the Goblin King!** _

“NO! I never meant to hurt him!” Sarah wept her defense to the stars, “It was an accident! An accident.” The ache that had settled itself deep within her breast began to pulse and burn. If only she could explain, atone, but the very idea was impossible, selfish—cruel—to wish him back now. Yet even still, the desire to call him back, to assuage her guilt and beg the forgiveness she did not deserve, thrummed under her skin. The muscles of her lips twitched, her tongue sitting like a stone in her mouth, the words trapped within.

_You will never see him again. That was your final farewell._ The idea nearly crushed her beneath its weight. She had always known their time was limited to the few remaining weeks of her finite freedom—the music of their strange and precarious dance would come to an end, and they would part as suddenly as they had met. The King would return to his throne, and she would march down the aisle to her gilded cage.

One wish. One wish to know what had become of the impossible man her words ripped apart. One wish to answer the questions she dared not ask, and close the book on the queerest—greatest—weeks of her life. One wish to say a proper goodbye.

_One wish—_

Soundlessly her mouth opened and closed. She wanted—needed the answers that could calm her troubled heart and soothe the fractures in her soul. Looking to the stars for guidance once more, her bottom lip trembled as her teeth chattered with breaking force. Rocking slowly in place, she imagined the Goblin King lying in a tomb beneath the weeping faces of monumental angels, surrounded by the bones of those who came before and the empty spaces of those that would come after.

Before Sarah could stop them, the words flew from her lips on a whispering wind. “I wish you were here, now.” Her hand shot out, as if to snatch them from the very breeze that carried them away. What had she done?

The cold was painful. Her feet burned where they lay pressing into the stone; her throat stung with every drag of breath, throbbing from the chill and her tears. Uncontrollable tremors wracked her muscles, and they clenched desperately seeking warmth. Gritting her teeth through every twitch and jolt of her spine, she scanned the darkness for his imposing form to find nothing but the empty air.

Misery consumed her, and her silence rolled to ululating sobs once more until the brumal night stole her breath, allowing the somnolence to engulf her senses. Drifting closed her eyes grew heavy, her head bowed low as she succumbed to the deadened, black well that begged to swallow her whole. _I killed him! I killed him!_ “God forgive me!”

“What the Hell are you doing out here?”

Sarah screamed, turning sharply to fall from her knees awkwardly onto her bottom, her hands slapping against the stones as she caught herself. Her brow furrowed and recognition dawned—it was not the mismatched stranger from her dreams. It was not him. To her bewildered dismay, Blythe Tillens stood wrapped warmly in his coffee dressing coat, his hand locked firmly around the handle of the spider-cracked lantern.

Taken aback by the sniveling, wilting girl, Blythe gently asked again lowering to his knee. “Sarah, what are you doing? It’s freezing. You—” Leaning forward, the lamplight caught the bluish tinge of her lips, and the heavy tear tracks slashing her cheeks. “Sarah?”

He grasped her shoulders sternly giving her a solid shake. “Sarah!” he called again, inches from her face. She barely flinched as he shook her once more with clattering force. Her skin was like ice as he checked for fever, unsure if he should feel relieved or worried as he found no sign of illness.

Desperate to remove her from the danger of the cold, damp air, Blythe made to help her stand, only to have her stumble against him. It was sheer luck that he caught her before she crashed to the stone. With little effort, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the warm, waiting house.

She wouldn’t move, so he made her, placing her still quaking form onto the parlor floor near the hearth where he made quick work of the fire. She hadn’t made a sound, so he filled the silence for her, talking of nonsensical things that had never mattered less as he poured her a generous glass of brandy. Placing the drink before her, he spoke calmly. “Drink—it will help chase away the chill. I am going to fetch you a blanket, and then you will explain yourself.” It was a gentle command, kind even, but brooked no argument nonetheless. Placing a kiss on the disarrayed mass of curls, he offered Sarah a wan smile before leaving her to warm by the flames.

What had transpired in these last few days? The girl's willow green eyes pierced him like the deadliest of swords, rimmed with tears and anguish, trapped in an abyss of which she had yet to be saved. Sarah was hiding something—something for which Richard Lefroy could not be blamed.

Making his way up the staircase, Blythe portrayed the picture of equanimity, his face betraying none of the fear and heart-pounding anxiousness pulsing behind his eyes. He was worried, justifiably so, but he would not succumb to the emotions begging his attention. He needed his wife and Sarah needed her too.

**********

Blythe returned not five minutes later, his arms laden with the heavy woven blanket from Sarah’s bed. Constance was at his heals, her hands still tying the sash at the waist of her emerald dressing gown. Schooling her features, she entered the parlor, moving instantly to sit on the floor beside the brunette. Though her glass was empty, it appeared Sarah had not moved even an inch, her eyes staring listlessly into the hearth. The natural rose-hue had returned to her lips, but a slight tremor still shook her small frame.

Cautiously, as not to startle her upon his approach, Blythe opened the folds of the cover he’d stolen from her bed (or rather her floor) to drape it around her shoulders. Still she said nothing, but her small hands lifted to pull the edges tighter about herself as she loosed a weak sigh. No one spoke, each too afraid to break the tenebrose silence swinging like a pendulum between them. Unsure, Blythe refilled the empty glass and poured a generous sum before taking a vacant seat beside the hearth.

Rubbing soothing circles against her back, Constance pursed her lips, chewing her tongue until she could no longer bear the oppressive weight of her anxiousness. Her eyes darted to Blythe, brows raising in a questioned pleading for action, for words. For something. But the man simply shrugged, gulping down the brandy before his tongue could fathom the taste. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed heavily, his jaw clenching against the plangent silence.

“Sarah,” he called gently, leaning forward to clasp his hands together. Blythe paused. “Sarah—please,” he implored, his eyes moving from her to the orange flames. “If you continue with this silence, I will be left to assume that you have lost your marbles and went into the night to fetch them.” His lips twitched, grinning at his (perhaps ill-timed) humor. “Sarah—”

Without a word, Sarah lifted the glass to her lips gulping a generous swig, gasping as she replaced in on the ground. Softly, disbelieving, her head shook as she tried to formulate a response. Gaping, she sat trying to find the right words as her mouth opened and shut four different times, searching for the answer that would neither condemn nor disgrace her. With the softest laugh, more breath than chuckle, Sarah finally spoke. “You will think me mad.”

Frustrated, she glanced between them, pleading each with her tear-filled eyes. Pressing her lips flat, her green orbs settled upon Blythe, filled to the brim with her anguish. She swallowed hard, still unblinking as her breath wavered. “I—I’ve done something terrible— _unforgivable—_ ” Her voice caught as her weeping overwhelmed her.

Constance’s eyes grew wide, unsure, and Blythe leaned more heavily onto his forearms as the lines in his forehead creased. A dark brow rose, curious, collected, calm. “I doubt that. You are too good—too sweet.”

Resuming her soothing touch against the tormented girl’s back, Constance smiled gently. “Why would we think you mad? I admit you have been foolish, lingering in the night in naught but your bedclothes, but certainly not mad.” Leaning forward, she rested her head against the blanket clad shoulder, watching the colors dance and twirl over the blackened logs. “I agree with him. You are incapable of committing terrible, unforgivable acts. Whatever you may believe, whatever you have done, it looks far worse in your eyes that it truly is, I promise.”

“What drove you outside?” Blythe whispered.

“M—my dreams are haunted. I’ve hardly slept.” Sarah’s head fell, her face buried in her hands as she dragged quick, sharp breaths into her weary lungs. “I can’t stop seeing it.” Her fingers pushed over her brow, lacing into the dark curls. “It was all my fault.” Sniffing, her arms wrapped snug around her beneath the blanket.

Eyes raw and bruised from exhaustion locked with his, solecism glaring up from their depths. The sight disturbed him, but it was not the sorrow nor the guilt that threatened to swallow her into its gaping maw that drew his attention, but rather the blackened mark of shame. The longer Blythe held her troubled stare, the more his memory stirred and a troubled thought took hold.

Had he not been perturbed by her aloof and inflamed submissiveness just that morning? Had the self-degradation been present then? Or perhaps longer? Yes, he had taken note of the dolor cloud shrouding her, but he had dismissed it as nuptial restlessness.

Now, he was consumed with doubt.

“Sarah—” he began cautiously, rolling his tongue across his lips, his eyes gentle with concern. “Sarah, they are only dreams.” He wanted to do more to soothe and comfort, but he could find no better words, nor phrasing to aid her plight. Fortunately for Sarah, his wife’s talents far exceeded his own.

With a tender touch, Constance raised her fingers to the frightened girl’s chin, commanding her full attention with great care. “You were dreaming. Whatever you think you have done, whatever is tormenting you, Sarah, it is not real. You are safe here.” Wrapping her arms around her in a searing embrace, Constance held her with surprising force, then added, “No harm can come from a dream—they are fabrications, nothing more. They aren’t real.”

More than anything, Sarah wanted to confess—to confide in them all that had transpired in the brief window of Richard's absence. Temptation, far different than that which surrounded the Goblin King, teased at her illogical, tumultuous imaginings, promising rain to the desolate drought of her clandestine existence. Without warning, thousands of creatures spawned under Sarah’s flesh, each itching and needling against her guilt, demanding her confession. Madcap, she snatched the glass from the floor finishing the brandy in one swallow. Her nerves accepted it greedily, relaxing into its promised lullaby of tranquility as her control slipped away with every breath. The iron-clad hold on her tongue unscrewed, the noose tangling loop by loop, until suddenly it snapped under the strain.

“No.” The depth of emotion in her voice was jarring, though she hardly made a sound as she detached from her companion’s grasp. “No. You’re wrong.” Her chin lifted, her shoulders imperceptibly squared as she pulled from the recess of her courage, her decision made. “He is real. I’ve seen him. I—”

“Who? Who have you seen?” Blythe asked.

Her eyes moved flickered between them before she swallowed hard, her nose wrinkling as her answer pushed through her lips. _“Him—”_ she replied worriedly, then turned to Constance, “the man w-with mismatched eyes.”

The couple watched, studying the odd way her head shifted and her shoulders tensed. It was obvious she was sincere, and yet neither could discount the feeling that Sarah was hiding something. Her words were nonsense, and had he not found her weeping in the frigid night air, he would not harbor the same doubts.

Watching, Constance frowned, her mouth forming a silent _“oh”_ before her brow shot upwards. “Y-you—you’ve seen the man from—where? Here?” She watched dumbfounded as the girl simply nodded. “You are certain?”

Sarah nodded once.

Fresh tears rolled along the curve of her cheek before her head shook in disagreement. She explained, “No, not in town." Dashing away the tears with a disbelieving huff and watery smile, she chuckled, inexplicit and unexpected. "I saw him first at the lake." Casting a wary look at the woman beside her, Sarah added nervously, “So did you.”

“Me?” Constance exchanged a quick glance with her husband before her focus returned to the distressed girl at her side. Disbelieving, her head shook as she tried to recall the supposed memory. It didn’t exist—she had not seen him.

“You wouldn’t have known—I hadn’t known then either,” Sarah offered cryptically, her fingers moving to rub and twine together.

“Known what?” Constance pressed only to be met with an awkward, heavy silence.

Blythe leaned forward suddenly, his head turned just so, his voice cautious. “First? You said first—how many times have you seen this man?” The nagging hum of panic climbed up the walls of his throat, his gut turning in the pulsing quiet. The skin along his arms pebbled as each uncomfortable second ticked away. His heart clenched, his stomach crashing into his feet as he choked back the nightmares he feared she might be hiding. “Sarah,” he called, much louder than he ever intended. She jumped but still did not answer. “Sarah, how often have you seen him?”

Pale and wide-eyed, her head shook as her mouth tried to form a suitable answer. She had none. “A handful or so. I—I am not sure.”

“Has he been following you? Has he harmed you? Touched you?”

“No— NO!” Sarah’s head shook emphatically, her eyes painful saucers. At Blythe’s pointed stare, her stomach sank and her voice dropped. “No—he would never hurt me.” The faintest smile graced her lips as the memory of his hand ghosting along her hair tickled her senses.

_The warmth of his hand against her neck pebbled her skin as he toyed with curls springing from her braid. Softly, so very softly, she whispered the question she was nearly too afraid to ask, her curiosity too great to ignore. “If I had wished for you, would you have stopped them?”_

_“Yes.” It was instantaneous. Powerful. That word was not merely a sound, but a promise. A covenant. She had not seen his face—she had not needed to—the warmth of his body seeping through her heavy layers. The faintest touch of his lips at her temple, had her eyes closing, trying to savor the kiss. His long, elegant fingers drew over the curve of her cheek, the smooth leather of a single digit ghosting across her lips. A pained groan swept between them, and he pulled back breaking their fragile connection._

A thrumming pulse beat behind her eyes; she had no tears left, but she still felt like weeping despite the ever-growing headache threatening her stomach. Blythe was speaking, but she hadn’t heard a sound above the fading voices of her memory. Whatever he had said, it was hardly important. They had not listened, or at the very least they had not understood.

Constance took hold of the small shoulders poking from the edge of the falling quilt, and with a solid jolt, she pulled Sarah from her musings. Her voice was stern, laced with impatience. “How do you know?” Her lips were pursed, the look in her eyes hard, panic creeping into her tone. “What makes you certain he would not harm you?”

“I—I know it.”

“How? How do you know?”

“Because—um—”

“HOW?!”

“Because he wanted to hurt them! He would have killed them that night!” The words burst through her lips, but she could no more stop them than the impending sunrise. “If I had _wished,_ he would have, but I hadn’t known. I begged and screamed but never wished. That was my mistake! I do not even know what made me wish the first time—b-but I did. I did! I made a wish for him to be there—at the lake.” She glanced between them, taking a long gulp of air into her lungs, a smile pulling her lips before her voice turned distant, wistful. “One minute I was alone, and then I turned and—and there he was, tall, fair and—and so very angry. ‘You have no idea who I am?’ he said. He asked so many questions—I tried to ask my own but—” Her fingers touched her lips with reverence, “but h-he only promised me answers. ‘Wish me back—’” 

Her eyes looked to Blythe, “He told me to wish him back, b-but I was afraid. I was afraid—of him, I suppose. I did not wish him back—not then. Not until—until they— those men came for my father.” Looking back at the flames, she pressed forward, not caring how the story sounded, only that it needed to be told. “Th-then I saw the owl at the window. His owl. _Him—_ I screamed! I screamed until it hurt. I begged—I begged again and again—and—and nothing happened. Then you were there and brought me here—and I-I couldn’t sleep. I was angry—I wanted an explanation. I had done what he asked—or so I thought.” Her hands swiped across her face lodging in her hair. “I wanted answers, so I-I went to lake. I made my wish. He was there—he came and I lashed at him! I hit him! Again and again I struck him until my hands were sore.” 

Absentmindedly, she rubbed her knuckles. “He held me as I wept then begged my forgiveness. I had not wished, you see. I cried and screamed but made no wish—his hands were tied. He was furious—he wanted them dead. I saw it in his eyes. I wanted it too.” Pulling the blanket back over her trembling shoulders, Sarah held tight, savoring the growing warmth. “We parted and I did not wish him back until that first afternoon I went home. I could not bring myself to go inside, so I tended to the yard, the garden, the chickens—anything that kept me outdoors. I-I can’t say why I made my wish that day—but I wished and he answered. We talked nonsense, he made smile—laugh. He would not leave without my promise to meet him again, that night.”

Turning to Constance, she offered a weak smile. “I did not wish him back then. I was exhausted and I fell asleep. My absence frightened him, he thought they had come back for me.” She said with an airy laugh, “When you sent me to the lake, we met again. I packed a picnic.” Her fingers curled to caress the would-be scar in the center of her palm, remembering the peculiar prickling of his magic on her skin. “It was the happiest night of my life—and then—” she choked, her voice caught, “then I-I wished. I never meant to! I didn’t know. But someone was there— there in the trees, coming closer. We couldn’t be seen—it would ruin me. I asked him go, but he refused. He only wanted me safe, I know that now, but I was so afraid of being caught. I did not think, I merely spoke the words I have said a thousand times over. I wish you would leave, I said. I wished him away—I killed him!” 

Her sobs began, her tears spent as she whimpered into her hands. “I-I never would have—” Sarah stuttered over the words, the image of a bloodied owl burned fresh in her mind’s eye. “Dear God, I killed him! I KILLED HIM!" Silent sobs wracked her delicate frame; her tears long spent would not flow, though her eyes burned nonetheless. The crackling pop of the blackened logs mingled with her shuddering breaths, the gauche stillness hung like a shroud of thick, indelible fog. “I killed him.”

**********

Full dark settled into the sky, as it does in those last hours before dawn, when the frost clings to the windows with great abandon. No servants stirred, no candles blazed a path of light in the darkness of the modest house. A light burned in the parlor rooms, the soft flicker that danced along the walls, warming the three occupants sitting near. It had not taken long for Sarah to fall into a troubled sleep, her dark curls draped over delicate green silk as the expectant mother smoothed the hairs along her temple.

Sarah’s tear-less weeping crescendoed into the ululating whimpers of debility, crumbling her as an autumn leaf underfoot. She fell into Constance, whose arms wrapped around the fragile creature with searing warmth, firm yet soft, as though anything stronger might split her in two. The woman hushed and soothed, saying nothing but the whispered promises of safety and love, those subtle reassurances that all would be well. Eventually, she began to calm, her body waterlogged in molasses, the lingering tenebrosity rolling in wave after wave, dragging her beneath into the depth of exhaustion. She succumbed willingly, gratefully to that black chasm. She was fast asleep when Constance shifted her to lay across her lap, running her fingers through the silken curls at her scalp.

In the minutes it had taken the troubled woman to find some form of solace, if only temporary, Blythe had refilled his glass twice. How could he believe her? Teasing the cup along his lips, the final sip sloshed within its cage. He made no move to drink, his mind too lost in thought as he watched the woman resting on the dark wood floor. How could he not believe her? Sarah Williams was sensible—every faucet of her life pleaded her innocence—she was no liar, no fiend, and certainly she was not a murderer. Her mind was troubled, undoubtedly so, trapped into marrying one man to save another, neither deserving of her efforts or affection. Her own father was selling her body—her life—to evade Marshalsea or Fleet, whilst her fiancé pressed his significant advantage to bow her to his will. Locked like a vessel between Scylla and Charybdis, her future was bleak, and despite the glittering jewels and luxurious silks, her days would be spent under the serpent tongue of belittlement.

“What do you make of this? Has she suddenly gone mad?”

Moving the glass to rest against his thigh, Blythe rubbed his chin, his mind far away.   
He was equally disturbed by the erratic ramblings of the now-sleeping girl, but even still, he could hardly consider her words at full value. “No,” he said rather emphatically, “no, lunacy is not instantaneous, but slow and painful. It is a descent into the depths of a cavernous pit. Sarah is not mad—at least not more so than you or me.”

Constance looked up, her eyes incredulous, “Then you—you believe her?” She looked down at the mass of curls her fingers waded through, frowning so deeply, her eyes hurt. Constance breathed, a heavy sigh more than anything, and she thought from the flicker in his eyes and the press of his lips, he did not care for her words. 

The longer she thought, the more her mind turned and teased at the little, and rather incoherent knowledge she possessed. It was not that she believed Sarah, but rather that she could not believe the girl had lost her wits so suddenly. “Whatever we believe, the very idea that what she said was true is—it is impossible. Wishes and dreams? Blythe, she claimed that a wish made a man appear—like a phantom. You cannot possibly believe that!”

“I am not certain what I believe.” He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing his lips with a calloused palm. Bending over his knees, Blythe remained largely quiet, still toying with the tumbler in his free hand. It seemed they both were incapable of dismissing her story as a farcical tale; every part seemed impossible, like the crazed prattle of a lunatic begging for alms in the street. Madness was a dangerous insinuation, and the Estate needed little persuasion to take those accused under their wing. The single-minded purpose of keeping Sarah safe held the ever-present fear that threatened to devour him whole at bay. He was not a man prone to illogical or rash decision, but the longer he mulled over her words and the impossibility entangled within, the more his answer became clear.

“Perhaps,” he said with a frustrated sigh, a morose frown wrinkling his brow. “Perhaps, she is overtired—overwhelmed—afraid? You have said yourself, that she is trapped. You told me she feels helpless.” He paused, considering his words with great care. “You have confessed to me on more than one occasion that you were apprehensive before our wedding. Imagine her fears,” he said with a gesture of his head, “a man who wants nothing more than an obsequious beauty. She must be terrified.”

“What if—” she said with great pause, swallowing the terrified lump rising in her throat. “What if she is right? If what she says is true—” the implication hung between them, her lips drawing into a thin line, her deep eyes narrowed with caution. Constance watched her husband, gaging his reaction, studying his eyes for a hint of understanding. The moment she caught that spark of awareness glinting back, she begged her question, “Who or—or what is this man, and what hold does he have on her?” Slow tears crawled their way down her cheeks, burning a wet path into her pale skin, her heart clenching as her stomach churned.

Blythe made a low noise of frustration, catching her hand as his head ducked to meet her gaze. “Stop. I will not allow that kind of talk here—one word in the wrong ear, and we will never see her again. Secrets here are few—gossip runs rampant like rats in the sewers all waiting to sink their claws into the latest scandal.” He watched her face closely, but the only sign of her thoughts was a small line forming between her dark brows. “At best, she would be treated for hysteria, looked down on by the lowest vagabond. Lefroy would never hold true to their engagement—very few men would. Far worse if she is found mad.”

“The Estate,” came the whispered thought. Horrified, her eyes brimmed with tears as her stomach churned. The sleeping girl stirred then, her brow worried, her eyes fluttering wildly beneath their lids as a whimper rose from the back of her throat. _“Shhh,”_ Constance soothed, rubbing Sarah’s temples with the faintest pressure, as though anything stronger might shatter her. "Blythe...?" she whispered, helplessness bled in her tone, her heart flooding with sudden worry. “Blythe, what can be done?”

He fell silent again, and when he did speak, it was with the power of a king, his voice low and rough, his eyes grave. “Nothing.” His eyes flashed down to her lap then back again. “Her Shriving--the wedding is in a handful of hours,” he said, glancing to the clock, his features grim. “Whatever we believe, whatever may or may not be true, makes no difference.” Blythe moved forward then, coming to kneel at her side, reaching to cup her cheek as his thumb caressed her dampened flesh. “We will never speak of this again. Sarah will put this out of her head at once and never think on it—or him—again.” Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss against her lips, filled with all the worry and promise of the encroaching dawn. “She will say nothing during the Shriving—her confession would not be pardoned, even by God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! XOXO


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

_Three…_  
Two…  
One… 

The morning passed with torturous sloth and breathtaking speed, each action drawing into eternity and disappearing with a blink. The sun crept over the horizon toward the center of the sky in a symphony of color, facilely painting its canvas as though something was to be celebrated rather than endured. Her limbs felt heavy, as though they did not belong to her, weighed down by the alluring promise of serenity gifted through two careful drops of laudanum. Constance had been adamant that she take it, lest her tongue run away, staining her in tar-black opprobrium.

Why had she wished him back?

Had she dismissed her dreams as nothing more than nocturnal fantasy, the shredded, gaping seams of her world would not be bleeding into an abyss of guilt. Her temerity, her curiosity, her fervor were each a crudely laid step in the spiraling staircase plunging into the fires of her lies. Why had she wished him back? Had the lure of his contrasting eyes been the apple in her borrowed garden of paradise, his touch the sweet nectar of that forbidden bite? Had those strange, stolen moments been worth the pound of flesh claimed along the pebbled shore?

Why had she wished him back?

A walk to the gallows would have been far less daunting than the few paces it took to bring her before the waiting priest. Concentrating on the delicate rustle of her heavy skirts, Sarah made her way to the dark-frocked judge who was watching her with silver eyes. Frost traced its snowy fingers along each ridge of her vertebrae and her shoulders tensed on baited breath as she moved forward. She could hear her heart pulsing wildly against her ears, the incessant drumming echoing her rabid heart. With aching force, she swallowed the stone wedged against her palate before her confession attempted to tumble free.

_Murderer._

_No! NO!_ She would not succumb to her own weakness; her Shriving would continue even if her lies turned every word into sawdust, condemning her to an eternal pit of suffering. Her soul was far beyond redemption, but her life—her life could, at the very least, remain bearable. The effervescent happiness that had been absent in her home, but longed for with desperate fervor, would never be hers for the taking—her mother’s abrupt departure had made certain of that. Nevertheless, she would take what minuscule lassitude her future offered with greedy, obdurate fingers and step over the threshold of her gilded cage.

_Murderer._

The insidious voice crawled into her ear, hollowing out a permanent residence within her subconscious. _Murderer._ Choking back the sob that begged release, Sarah ducked her head sharply before her tears could swell, hiding whatever expression pinched at her brow in feigned contrition. Dropping to her knees in supplication, the lilac silk-brocade swelled with a rustled sigh as her hands clasped in her lap, waiting.

Startling as a heavy hand settled atop her carefully tamed, fuscous curls, Sarah ground her teeth as Father Elswick recited his prayer. _Say nothing you are not asked. Say nothing. Breathe… breathe._ Bowing further under the foreign and rather unpleasant pressure, her eyes closed as she fought to contain the bile of guilt rising at the back of her throat, the dark, black taste searing her tongue. _Breathe. Breathe._ Herculean effort kept her upright as her head swam, but her repose held fast and her too-pale lips lingered as the only sign of her distress.

Without a mirror, she knew the vibrancy of her eyes had long since vanished—washed away with her countless tears. Her features were stolid, vacant. Numb. _Answer simply, say nothing you were not asked. Breathe._ Closing her eyes, she waited, listening with rapt attention for the man to begin the ritual of recitations. The unchanging questions and answers were rehearsed during the dusty hours of the morning, where Constance could be assured of her compliance. Premeditated, her ripostes flashed across her memory, twisted and knotted like the branches of a decaying willow. _Simple answers. Simple answers._

_Simple answers._

“Shall we begin, my dear?” Peeking through her lashes at the dark-frocked man watching her with crinkled, grey eyes, she breathed deep, centering herself. His sagacious figure loomed over her as she fought the urge to shrink away from his benevolent touch, her desperation rooting her to the pillow beneath her knees.

_Breathe._

Swallowing hard, Sarah nodded, then fixated on the black hem hanging only inches from her entwined fingers. _Say nothing._ “I—I—” her words faltered, her voice caught. Flushing, she offered an abashed grin before drawing a long, steady breath. “I come before you, Father, and the Almighty God, willing and humble for my Shriving. Never have I knelt thusly for judgment,” she swallowed painfully forcing the panic from her tongue. _Breathe… breathe._ “N—never shall I kneel thence.”

“Then be judged, my child, that ye might absolve your sins and bind yourself within the covenant of matrimony,” Father Elswick said with calm solemnity as he made the sign of the cross in the space above her head. “You will recite and avow under the watchful eye of the Most High God, lest your soul be forever damned by your prevarication. Confess and free yourself of your burdens.”

Though scripted, his words pressed her like a stone beneath the shore, driving the air from her lungs with searing force. _You know the answers… breathe. Breathe!_ Elswick waited a moment, whether to emphasize his words or as part of the ritual, she could not be certain. With the gentle clearing of his throat, his pale hand lifted from her dark hair, and taking a slight step back, his lips curled in an unreadable grin. “Know you the venial sins?”

Sneaking a glance at the towering man, she nodded quickly before tipping her chin downward she answered. “Y-yes,” with a slow, tumultuous breath she began, “pride, envy, wrath, greed, l-l-lust—” she stumbled again, an image of the Goblin King flashing before her eyes. The memory of his touch ghosted along her skin— _NO! Focus on you answers. Simple answers. Simple answers!_ “Lust, sloth and gluttony.”

“Have you kept them, my child?”

“I have tired and failed to remain spotless before the Lord. For this purpose I kneel before you seeking absolution for my mortal failings.” Sarah lifted her eyes to meet that of Father Elswick, who nodded in turn before signing the cross above her head, as she did the same across her chest. 

Once more, Sarah bowed her head, her eyes studying the intricately laid ruffles cascading along the silk of her robe à la Française. The silver and pearlescent threads wove together in stunning filigree pattern along the wide-seam border, crawling and spreading over the lace-fringed bodice. Though the gown was undeniably vogue and beautiful, Sarah would have chosen something altogether different were it not for the overwhelming and rather oppressive opinion of Mrs. Rossen. The woman had been relentless and Sarah, to avoid contention, allowed her complete control over the wedding, and inarguably the dress. Something she easily came to regret.

“Know you the commandments of the Most High God?” 

“I do, Father. Thou shalt have no other gods before me, thou shalt not make graven images, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, Remember the sabbath, to keep it holy.” Taking another deep breath, she furthered her verbose answer. “Honor th-thy father and mother,” she could hardly keep her eyes from rolling like dice within her head nor the bitterness from her voice. _Honor her father— her mother! Honor indeed!_ Yes, honor the woman that ruined every facet of her childhood and the man that gambled and whored his life away! Honor those that left her a wounded shell of her former self and the subject of heinous gossip, with not but a sixpence to her name! Honor indeed.

Sniffing away the angry tears burning at the edges of her emerald eyes, Sarah cleared her throat, resuming her recitation. “Thou shalt not k—” Caught unawares by her place in the Shriving, the words died on the air; her heartbeat leapt to breakneck speed, thundering as hooves encroaching the battlefield. Again and again she tried to form that single word, her lips shaping the letters, desperate to finish, but still she produced no sound. 

_Continue your confession! Continue!_

_**Murderer.** _

Her jaw trembled, her eyes wide, wild. Murderer. The silence stretched wide as she dug her nails into her palms— every ounce of her body pulsed as an owl shrieked somewhere within her mind. Gritting her teeth, Sarah tried to snuff the memories before they consumed her. Say nothing! Say nothing! A pathetic whimper slid past her ghost-white lips, the confession begging to be released. Blinking furiously to stem the heavy tears balanced precariously along her lower lashes, she dragged a rough breath into her collapsed lungs. _Murderer. MURDERER! **MURDERER!**_

“NO!” the sound ricocheted against the stained glass and oak pews, threatening to shatter them both. Silence followed, the terrifying accompaniment dramatizing the rasping, airy sounds of her staggered breaths. Trembling atop the petite cushion, her eyes screwed shut, forcing her damnable tears away. She felt the floor giving out under her feet waiting to swallow her into the gaping maw to the burning chasm below. She wanted to cry, to beg, to plead for mercy, but she could not begin to form the words. Frozen solid, even her lips were numb.

Tentative as a hangman moving to the noose, Sarah tilted her chin to the frowning man standing with his grey brow arched. His expression gave nothing away as he stood statuesque, his silver eyes becoming like slate, or the pregnant clouds of a rolling deluge. Stark and foreboding, he began to glower, impatient. Much too afraid to speak, Sarah waited for the dam of his augur to burst, drowning her in condemnation.

Only it did not.

Gritting with annoyance, Father Elswick spoke again, “know you the commandments, my child?” The pestiferous tenor dropped over her hunched form, sounding almost (if she were bold enough to assume) bored. Helpless, Sarah could do little more than stare hollowly, her own brows drew together, sodden with disbelief. At her overdrawn pause, Elswick cleared his throat, his patience had reached its limit. “Know. You. The. Commandments?”

Jaw agape, Sarah fumbled a moment as she tried to form her answer from the inarticulate garble pulsing over her tongue. “Y-yes, for-forgive me, Father.” Frowning, her eyes darted wildly about the floor, searching for the right words waiting beyond the valley of her worry. “Th—thou shalt not k-k—” pain stabbed beneath her breast, furious as a hummingbird’s wing as her heart throbbed. _Finish! You must finish!_ “Thou shalt not kill!” The words slammed past her lips, barreling into the room, the fervid sound seeming larger under the arched ceiling. Swallowing past her panic, Sarah pressed on, “thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt not covet.”

Simon Elswick stood with curious eye, his focus locked firm on the woman kneeling before him— the woman he was certain had secrets— and sins. Three decades he had been presiding over the small village: blessing, enshrining, and marrying countless souls under his divine care. With each wedding a bride knelt, tremulous and frightened. All had secrets, but none quite so curious as Sarah Williams. Most stumbled over the routine answers, forgetting their words, jumbling the commandments or losing their voice altogether. Peculiarity was not uncommon during a Shriving, for no man could swear before God they had nothing to hide. An avid observer, he suspected Sarah had more to hide than most.

Softening the annoyance evident on his tongue, Simon continued, startling the poor girl once again. “Have you kept the Holy Commandments of the Almighty God?”

“I have tried,” her voice cracked, sibilated and raw. Closing her eyes, slow tears crawled down her cheeks, burning a wet path into her pale skin. Her heart clenched as her stomach churned. “I have failed to remain spotless before the Lord, my God. I kneel seeking absolution for my mortal failings, so that I might be whole and pure be—before,” pain and thole sept through the fractured seams of her heart as she finished weakly. “That I might be pure before entering into the covenant of marriage.” 

A gentle hum of approval preceded his final words, “Sarah Williams, God is with you, he hears the pleadings of your heart and knows the truth of your soul. Go with grace and sin no more.” Signing the cross above her for the last time, Elswick stepped back, nodding to her with a gentle gaze. “Rise, my child.” As she did so the priest motioned to a door on the far back wall, ushering her forward. “Mrs. Tillens will assist you further. Until the ceremony,” tipping his head to her in the barest acknowledgment, he smiled and moved away as Sarah moved hastily to the door. 

**********

Constance was pacing, her hand rubbing soothingly against her swollen belly, humming nonsensical nothings as she moved about the little room. A shout drew her attention to the door, her heart lurched, stopping abruptly, as she listened. Nothing. Nothing followed that obscure, lonely sound, but still Constance could not bring herself to look away from the heavy wood barrier. The festering wound of doubt bubbled under her skin leaving her anxious and unsure. Had Sarah said too much? Had she done the unthinkable and confessed?

The door pushed inward, ushering a ghost-white Sarah into the much too sunny room, her eyes distant and haunted. Fresh tear tracks glistened against her cheeks as she fell against the door before she collapsed in a heap of gossamer and silk. The storm of her heart stamped wildly against her breast, threatening to shatter her sternum into thousands of tiny pieces, leaving naught but a gaping hole in its wake. 

“How…how did—?” The question died on the air between them, much too weak to live beyond the matron’s lips. Hand still tethered to her unborn child, Constance offered a gentle, wan smile, too uncertain to do anything more for the pusillanimous woman before her. A tug at the furthest recess of her mind, tickling her curiosity and apprehension in one small fluttering action, confirmed to her, though she could not say just how, that something was amiss.

The brunette frowned a moment, before answering with a gentle nod. Lifting her eyes from the floor, the mossy green as vibrant as an emerald, bled frangibility. “As planned, I said nothing condemning.”

“Thank God,” she breathed, her head dropping forward as her eyes closed with palpable relief. “The worst is behind us. All will be well.” Constance pressed forward, enveloping her within the ameliorating circle of her arms, whispering gently, “I am proud of you, Sarah.” With a final squeeze she pulled back, and slid her hands downward to clasp Sarah’s between hers. Standing that way for several moments, the two basked in the quiet, somnolence relief.

“I know this can be a rather daunting day, even without…” her voice trailed, her meaning hanging precariously, awaiting the vocalization that would never come. Clearing her throat, she added, “I promise it will pass in a blur— you will be celebrating the new year in Paris before you know it.”

Sarah made to speak but was drowned by the plangent rumbling of her too-empty stomach. It had been two days since her last meal, but what she had eaten had been bland scraps. Tidbits here and there meant to quell the embarrassing songs of hunger. Despite the obnoxious groan and pinprick throb taping against her barren core, she still had no appetite.

Deep chestnut eyes narrowed a fraction as the matron studied her, “Come sit, take what respite you can find.” The command was said with finality, and Sarah complied. Moving to the old, weathered vanity that was as old as the rectory itself, she studiously avoided the wide, black-speckled mirror. Constance took her place behind the distraught woman and brought her fingers to rest against Sarah’s temple, rubbing slow, careful circles against her skull. The soporific ministrations pulled a low groan of contentment from her lips as the girl succumbed to the sensation.

Pursing her lips, Constance warred over whether to bring her dangerous questions to life. In the weakest hours of the morning, after the storm of Sarah’s unusual confession ebbed to a haunting lull, they had each promised to never speak on the man, nor the dreams again. For all their sakes. Blythe had been emphatic they keep their silence, he wanted no part of the tales, nor the consequences that would most certainly follow were she discovered. 

Constance had wanted _more._

Her curiosity burned, tingling along the ridges of her spine, dancing its ghostlike fingers against her mind. This was her chance, never could she guarantee such solitude between them again. She _had_ to try. Swallowing, Constance weighed the risk, knowing what was at stake should they be overheard. Nonetheless, she had to try; she needed answers and time was fast waning. Venting the dervish that swirled wildly in her thoughts, she dared to shatter the chains of their promise, begging one of her boundless questions. “W-was he truly the man from your dreams?”

The thick, verbose silence that followed clung sickly to the air, awkward and heavy, pulsating between them. Sarah pulled away from the hands at her temple, spinning sharply on the stool, eyes round and incredulous. Taken aback at the sheer audacity of her companion, Sarah failed to keep the dolor from her pitch. “W-we agreed… no. No!”

“I know— I know what we promised…” dropping to her knees she reached for the girl’s hands, “But how? _How?_ How could you be certain it was the same man? How is it even possible— flesh and blood summoned with a— _a wish?”_ The terrified look reflecting within those emerald eyes haunted her, and quickly her hand raised in oath, “I shan’t breathe a word of this to Blythe; he needn’t know.” Her eyes fell, searching their entwined fingers for the answers that would not come. Rolling her shoulders, Constance sighed, resolute. “I cannot explain the reasons for my curiosity, for truly I have none. Your story is horrifically— maddeningly impossible. Pyres have been built on less, and yet despite this, I believe you. I believe you, Sarah.” Their eyes locked, cocoa to sage, as the silver thread of understanding strung taut between them. “You are many things, but a fabricator, a liar— a madwoman— you most certainly are not.” The barest smile pulled at the edges of her mouth, sincerity glowing from within. “Your secrets are safe with me.” 

Sarah gasped at the sudden realization. _I believe you. I **believe** you._ The restlessness inside her began to soften, the knife-edge of panic dulling to a bearable ache deep within her breast. Constance believed her, with no threat of madness nor witchcraft. The room blurred as her eyes burned, rimmed with hot, thick tears, her dread slowly abating with each heartbeat. Rushing forward, her arms flew to surround the other woman in a searing embrace— her voice sibilated, agog. “T-thank you. _Thank you.”_ When the sting of tears and the sniffling of her nose ebbed, she pulled back, swiping at the moisture dampening her cheeks. “Thank you, Constance. You cannot know the weight of your words… thank you.”

Perhaps Constance was prying much too deeply into matters that were best left locked behind the vast vestiges of Sarah’s troubled conscious, never to be remembered. Perhaps ignorance would maintain a brighter outcome. Curiosity came at much too high a cost to be casually conversing about phantoms and magic within the sacred halls of the church, but the nagging questions that might never find their voice beckoned. Here, waiting behind the drab, hallowed walls was the barest window of opportunity; would there be another? Dare she ask once the girl returned from her honeymoon, settled into the roll of quiet, doting wife, her mind preoccupied with endless expectations? 

It would be now or never. 

“Why did you wish him back?” Of the myriad of questions swarming noisily like bees to the hive, it was the simplest to vocalize. 

“I—I um…” Sarah bit her lower lip to stop herself from stammering, uncertain of how to answer. Hesitating, she pondered the best course of action then settled with the truth. “Quite by accident,” she laughed lightly, a single barely audible huff of amusement that remained trapped behind her insipid smile. The image of the formidable man standing against the fading light pulled to the forefront of her mind; her heart raced as it had the strange and fateful night. “I had not intended to… not the first time. I merely whispered a thought aloud, begging an audience with the— the _owl.”_ The last word was whispered, with downcast eyes. Embarrassed, a delicate rose bloomed on her cheeks as she recalled the evening that would forever be branded on her soul— the raise of his brow as he calculated her every breath. His anger. His arrogance. 

His lips crashing against her own.

Shaking the dangerous thoughts away, Sarah tamped the blush from her cheeks, and spun fully on her stool to face Constance, who met her with a confused, but patient stare. “My dreams were not only haunted by the strange eyes, and the man who owned them but a-also…” she paused, weary to continue, chewing her lip with nervous fervor. Habitually, her chilled fingers lifted to the locket tucked between her breasts, her teeth tugging lightly at her lip. “Also an owl— a beautiful, tawny barn owl. It-it was always there, watching me— _studying_ me. I was never afraid, though at times I hated its plangent indifference, and the knowing glint in those dark, beady eyes.” Her gaze fell to her twisting fingers, a faraway smile ghosting her lips. 

“An _owl?”_ the matron’s eyes narrowed, then suddenly then widened, her mouth dropping. _“ **The** owl? _Perched in the storm? B-but that’s—” she fumbled with deliberate caution, a disbelieving, dumbfounded grin pulling the corners of her mouth. The piquant honesty blazing from those luminous green eyes was confirmation enough. “H-his bird was there th-that day at the lake?” Constance fell quiet as gooseflesh pebbled across her skin, sending a tremor down her spine as she thought back to that tumultuous, grey afternoon and the words spoken therein. 

_“He was striking and wild. The moment our eyes met I knew that the center of this man’s attention was a very dangerous place to be.” The shadow of fear caressed the pallid girl’s cheek as the violent storm thrashed against the sky. A blinding burst of lightening made her jump as the earth quaked. Constance begged they take their leave, but the wind stole the words, carting them to some unknown place. Only Sarah had not moved. Her body frozen in the whirlwind, eyes locked on the sky, widened, becoming too large for their sockets._

_Constance followed her gaze, curiosity burning a hole in the pit of her stomach. What could possibly cause such unadulterated fear? Confused at the vast nothingness in the clearing, save for the trembling trees and bubbling water, her brow furrowed as the first drops pattered against her face. Her words of retreat landed on deaf ears, forcing her to lean closer, angling her chin to see better what transfixed that mossy gaze. Amid the evergreens and spindled branches dancing in the tempest, was a lone owl, perched precariously on the swaying branch…_

Blinking away her memories, she frowned. “That hardly explains why you made your wish— or how you knew to do so.”

“I didn’t.” Sarah began, rising from her seat, nervously smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her gown. The brumal sun kissed along her neck, and the curve of her cheek as she stood at the window, looking but not seeing beyond the dirty pane. “I am not lying when I say it was completely by accident.” Turning slightly, a hand rose to her necklace, while the other wrapped around her core, bracing her elbow. “In the days following our visit to the lake, I couldn’t help but think of the owl and my recurring dreams and him. I attempted to quiet my mind, so—”

“You dusted the empty rooms, or better still, washed the windows?” Constance finished for her with a smirk, daring her to protest. As Sarah opened her mouth to do just that, her hand lifted to the air in mock apology. “Wait, no, I’ve got it! You scrubbed the floors until your back ached and your fingers pruned!” The woman declared with far too much mirth.

Sarah rolled her eyes, trying to conceal her incriminating smile, defending her actions, “I _distracted_ myself.” Sighing heavily, she leant her head against the dark-molded window frame, her fingers still tracing the ridges of the rose on her locket. “Or rather I tried with little success.” Chewing her lip, she dispassionately laughed. “I was thinking aloud— a terrible habit, I know— musing over what I had seen, all that I felt within the bonds of slumber. I wanted to see the bird— needed to see it again— if only to confirm that I had not imagined him. I wished he was there to confirm my suspicions… when I stepped out for fresh air the owl _was there._ I cannot tell you how I knew it was the same animal, but I knew! Constance I knew it was him, suddenly it took flight, and I made chase.”

Blinking furiously, an incredulous expression holding her mouth agape as she tried to explain her actions, Sarah shrugged. “I do not know if I followed or lead him to the lake, but before I could think better of it I was in the clearing searching the trees. He was not there.” Her voice turned soft, crestfallen, “I waited for what felt like ages, but he never returned. I lingered a few moments more, comforted by the stillness, embraced by the encroaching dusk.” Her eyes closed, her fingers stilled as she whispered her confession. _“Make your wish,_ I thought, uncertain as to the birthplace of such a notion— but command nagged at my psyche, calling me, begging me to obey— and I did. Stumbling over the strange request, I made my wish.” 

Tension bubbled between them, threatening to burst should either breathe too loud or move too quick. From across the small, dingy room Constance could feel the palpitations: not just her heart, but Sarah’s as well. Had the faintest sliver of doubt resided in her breast, it was shattered now. Truth held a power all its own: one that lies could not hope to match— striking deep in the heart, leaving an imprint, a brand upon the flesh. Unconsciously, her hand rubbed against her swollen womb, her chocolate eyes bright with wonder. “Tell me of him.” 

Sarah’s complexion slowly faded to translucent ivory, with the merest hint of color blooming along the ridge of her cheekbones. “His hair is as wild as he is tall, his arching brow formidable— enticing— those mismatched eyes calculated every twitch, every breath. He is lithe and beautiful, imposing and powerful, gentle and cruel— the paramount of contradiction.” The worried frown that had risen with her previous words had vanished, replaced with a smile that warmed the room several degrees. “He was so angry that first night. I was terrified. _You don’t know who I am, do you?_ He asked, his voice deep and thrilling. I thought I’d gone mad— perhaps I have.” She added with a noiseless chuckle, “He insisted that I knew him— demanded the admission. I could hardly give what I did not have. In my silence he changed tact, offering me a gift rather than his ire—”

“A gift?

“A crystal orb.” 

Wrapping her arms around herself, rubbing warmth into her arms. “He pulled it from the air, dancing it impossibly across his fingers, letting it balance precariously along the edges of his hands. I’ve never seen anything like it— I was transfixed, intoxicated. When he placed it within my hand, it grew warm, inviting, soothing. The sudden thought to forget him, to walk away and never look back itched in my mind, begging I succumb. Only, I did not want to forget him.” Slowly her fingers rubbed together, an unconscious act as she remembered the weight of the glass on her palm. 

Lowering to nearly a whisper, she continued, “He began to walk away and I— I dropped it— the crystal— and instantly shed those foreign whispers. The moment I was no longer in contact with the bewitched ball, the notions fled, like shadows in the sun. I do not know what came over me, for you know as well as I it is better to let sleeping dogs lie. But the thought of him leaving without having sated my curiosity… I could not bear it. I ran to him. I ran and rounded on him, demanding answers of my own.” Her eyes closed, remember his pestiferous look, and the anger rousing within her. “We stood stalemated; he told me to go home, to forget, that I would catch my death if I lingered too long.” _You’re stalling,_ she’d accused, staring up at the impossible man. Where such bravado had stemmed she would never know, but it had latched to her that night, warming her chilled flesh with its fervor. 

Until his lips claimed hers…

“Did he answer?”

Starting, Sarah turned, torn from the distracting memories by the anxious woman who sat watching with keen interest at the edge of her seat. Dumbfoundedness pinched Sarah’s features, her mouth forming the question, until the words found purchase within her understanding. Shaking her head, she sniffed, “No, not then.”

Engrossed in the forbidden tale, Constance shifted, tilting her head in disbelief. “I-is that why you wished him back? To demand the answers he would not give?” Pride lit her eyes as she smiled, unfettered, “Did you demand it of him?! Was he angered by your inquiries? Did he—”

“Oh, Constance,” touched at the undeserved praise, Sarah offered a wan smile, “I think you have greatly overestimated my fortitude.” Scrunching her nose in nervous energy, she confessed. “I never demanded answers, merely persisted to ask. Even still, I did not sate the greatest vestiges of my curiosity u-until—” the words caught, a heavy weight lodged at the back of her throat, her eyes burning. Trembling she fought back her despair, deciding instead to continue with her limited version of the illicit meetings. Coughing back the sob balanced on the brim of her nerves, Sarah cleared her throat several times to dislodge the guilt clawing at her throat.

Seeing her discomfort, Constance made to move, but suddenly thought better of it, “Sarah?” Tentatively, she called to the morose girl who stood biting back tears. “Sarah, dearest,” deciding it best not to broach the subject of that final, fateful night, she continued, “then…when _did_ you wish him back?”

Wiping away the moisture, Sarah frowned offering a humorless laugh and returned to her seat at the vanity. “I never intended to see him again. I had not planned to make a wish.” Rolling her lips over her teeth, her hand scrubbed across her mouth, as she spoke into her palm. “His very existence was madness, and I feared him a secret much too dire to keep.” Dropping her hand, her vulnerable eyes looked to Constance, “Do not misunderstand, I wanted to see him again. I wanted…” _more than answers,_ she mused.

“Whatever I wanted was trumped by my sense of reason and my nauseating fear.” Clearing her throat, she sniffed as her hands rubbed fiercely together. “I dared not wish him back.” She said sadly, “That is, until three men barged their way into my home demanding payment in coin or flesh.” Her voice was hard, her brows wrinkled in consternation. “I was p-pinned to the table, my skirts bunched about my waist when I caught a flash of white at he window. It was an owl. _The owl._ I screamed at him, begged for its master. Pleaded with every fiber of my being until my voice was hoarse and my assailants furious.” Her tears could not be subdued with the recollection of the grime-coated fingers tracing up her thighs, the weight pinching between her shoulders as she thrashed against the rough tabletop.

The petals of peacefulness had blown away in the whirlwind of her admission, leaving Constance tumbling about on the waves of confusion. Blythe had recounted that night, several times in fact, with such clarity and vehemence that she could picture every detail as though she too had been there. It had been days later, when her abasement ebbed to the pulsing sting of shame, that Sarah orated each moment of her abhorrent tale.

Constance, of course, had not been there that night, but her imagination climbed to such heights that she could practically smell the pungent cologne permeating the dark kitchen. She could feel the hot, sour breath upon her neck, the hands pushed violently against her back as her face landed against the large table. Her conjured memories of that horrific night had kept her awake long after the sun had set; despite her absence from the Williams home, she too had been terrified. 

Shaking away such heinous thoughts, Constance frowned, “I don’t understand, Blythe said that you were alone with those men…” her voice trailed off as her lips pursed. “No one else was there.”

“No one _was_ there.”

Mouth hanging agape, her lip trembled as her anger surged. “H-he did not come? He left you to them?!” Her tumultuous rage burned against her cheeks as her knuckles fisted into her skirts with whitening force. “How dare he!”

Shaking her head, muttering protestations, Sarah interjected patiently. “I never _wished.”_ Her hand coming to cover the other woman’s with an assuring squeeze. Sliding her head until their eyes locked, her own bright and open, gifting her friend with a gentle smile. “I never wished, Constance. I begged, pleaded, screamed and cried… never wished. He was as helpless to stop them as I.” Chewing her lip, she glanced at their hands, absently whispering, _“even kings are bound by rules.”_

Unbidden, the sudden hand of fear wrapped its fingers along the column of her throat, begging her silence. The phantom force pushed against her larynx, without pain, but no less threatening, as the warning persisted as a dark, foreboding shadow blackened the edges of her vision. It seemed her conscious wanted to keep its secrets locked deep within the furthest recess of her mind, where only she could access the strange and impossible memories. The Goblin King had no more given her permission to speak of his existence than he had given her permission to make her initial wish. 

Dancing upon eggshells and glass, the thundering groan of each spiderweb crack echoed beneath her as she inched toward the unseen shore. Setting her chin in grim determination, Sarah pressed on, silently vowing to maintain restraint where the King was concerned. 

Swallowing the bile of guilt that drowned the boon of his memory in its murky waters, she continued her explanation. “My begging, my tears, were not enough to summon him to my aid. He is bound to a wish much the same as a boat to the sea… he is tangled in the restraints of the rules.” Lifting her hand to stop the onslaught of questions she was sure the woman would ask, Sarah gave a pleading look. “I cannot explain them.” She frowned at her own incompetence, knowing full well she was hardly to blame, “But I have been witness to the repercussions of his disobedience.” Shuddering at the memory of his mismatched eyes watering in pain, Sarah clenched her jaw, “The barest deviation is torture— a preventative measure, that is all too effective.” 

Filled with an overabundance of unnameable energy, Sarah pushed to her feet, pacing the room while her fingers toyed habitually with her locket. “The night you spotted my flight to the lake… I was sick with rage, and hurt, suffocating under their immense weight, and I wanted answers. I _needed_ answers.” She stopped for a moment to glance back at Constance, who sat staring with rapt attention. “I wished him back that night, determined to loose the bonds of my anger.” A faraway look glazed her emerald eyes, softening the v on her brow as her lips ghosted a reverent smile. “Only… the moment I saw him, the words vanished in the wind. He held me as I cried, and then I h-hit him. Over and over again, I rained blow upon blow against his chest until my hands ached, and my sobs quieted.”

Closing her eyes to the memory of his warmth surrounding her, Sarah sighed contentedly. “He explained the rules— or what he could of them. He was forthcoming and honest in his answers, never belittling me, instead lifting my heart— making me smile, laugh. For a blissful moment, I forgot my troubles, and I never wanted it to end.” Her eyes were closed as she spoke, the grin never leaving her lips. “I left that night, lying to myself, promising to never wish him back. That lasted three days, until I was back at my home, too afraid to go inside. I cannot say whether I wished him back because of that fear or my own desire to see him once more, though I suspect both are equally to blame.”

Walking to the window, once again, Sarah stared more at the dirty glass than at the scene beyond. “He was there when Blythe came to fetch me, refusing to leave without my promise to wish him back that very night. I succumbed much too easily to his demand; though it was not unkindly offered, it seemed he had missed me as much as I had him.” Sucking in a sharp breath, she swallowed hard, “Only, I did not meet him then. After our talk, and your request for privacy, I promptly fell asleep, forgetting my promise.” A disbelieving look accompanied her huff of noncommittal humor, Sarah pressed a hand to her mouth, “The moment I saw him, that next night, I knew something was wrong. I could see it in his eyes. He was furious, having spent the previous evening waiting… worrying… he feared the worst— that my attackers had returned.” Opening her eyes, she peered sheepishly to Constance, “We talked after I explained, rather forcefully, that I had been too tired to keep my word.” Looking down to her palm, now open for her perusal, her middle finger traced the nonexistent line at the center. She did not feel inclined to share that detail with her companion; it was far too personal, too intimate, too precious.

“You already know what happened that night.” The mirth that had filled her seeped from her pores, evaporating instantly; the lifelessness returned tenfold. “I never meant to make my last wish— it was a turn of phrase. A stupid utterance of words th—that—” Coughing back the torrent of words rising against the back of her throat, she sniffed loudly forcing everything into the recess of her mind.

She had always known that their secret rendezvous were numbered. _Nothing lasts forever,_ she chided herself, leaning her head against the autumn-chilled glass. The hurricane of emotions were simply the last vestiges of her guilt and shame. Soon enough, after the ceremony concluded and the carriage jostled its way to France, her world would lose its sense of illusoriness, and her life would return to normal— a normality where she would spend day after dreary day in her gilded cage.

Softer than the scurrying of a church mouse at mass, Sarah let the tears trace along her sorrow-burned cheeks. “Each liaison was more dangerous than the last, but from the moment his mismatched eyes haunted my dreams I could do nothing but succumb to their unworldly pull.” Peering over her satin clad shoulder, her eyes shone with a newfound reverence. “I knew it wouldn’t last— it couldn’t. I always knew… but for the first time in my life I felt— _more._ That I was more.” breathless, her eyes searched those of her friend for any sign of understanding. 

“I knew better than to sneak away, seeking the company of a stranger. I knew, and yet…” she loosed an airy sigh, “and yet I was drawn to him, like the waves to the sand. And just as they cannot remain ashore, neither could we continue…” Her cheeks shimmered under the brush of the brumal sun, glistening; her trembling hands smoothing the fabric along her stomach as her lips set in a grim line. With one last shuddered breath, her shoulders pulled back and her fingers demurely interlaced as her features settled into a stare of utter indifference. The only proof of her turmoil was the faint quaking of her lips, and the slight burn around her eyes. “I am to be married, and as I promised, I will think on him no more.” 

“Sarah…” Constance began, but was cut short by the sudden whine of the door swinging on its hinges, revealing a rabid-eyed Blythe ushering himself inside before slamming it shut behind him. Stunned, both women turned, sharing a look of confused surprise, “What ever is the matter, Blythe? You are pale as death,” his wife asked with a bemused grin that slowly faded when met with an eerie silence. “Blythe?”

“Lefroy had better fix—” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He moved past his wife, paying her befuddled look no heed. “Sarah.” His voice was laced with a knife-edge of anger, and the girl in question took a startled step back. “Did you confess it?!” The bite of his word had her stumbling to form an answer. “Did you confess it, Sarah?”

“N-no. No! I said nothing, I swear.” 

“Shite!” He spat, drawing a gasp from Constance, who called his name in chastisement, forcing his tone to ease. Changing tactic, Blythe leaned forward, capturing the girls hands with his own. His eyes studied them as his thumbs brushed against the backs of her fingers. Taking a long, slow breath his grip tightened and she winced, trying to free herself from his grasp— but he held firm. “Sarah…” he started, his naturally peaceful eyes burned dark, heavy, filled with turmoil and fear. “What did you confess?”

Shaking her head in frantic recollection, she stammered, “I recited everything, exactly as you said. I confessed only what was required of me, nothing more. I am certain.” Squeezing his hands in earnest, she offered a weak smile. “You have my word.”

Releasing her, he stepped back. The look of panic returned full force. His fists clenched at his sides as he paced the small room, twelve steps in an awkward circle brought him roundabout, where he halted before his frowning wife. 

“Blythe, what is this about? What is wrong?” she asked gently, as though he were a new fawn bracing to flee. Settling her hand upon his forearm, she allowed the small comfort to soothe him, if only for a moment.

The man looked over his shoulder, the color drained from his previously ired face, “You are certain you’ve told no one? There is no other you told in confidence?” Shooting a stern look he finished, “Think hard, Sarah, it is of the utmost importance.”

“I do not need to. I have told only you,” she said with an air of unease. “I _am certain,_ Blythe. Please, what is this about? What’s happened?”

His baritone carried into her ears from somewhere faraway; she could feel them settle against her understanding with prickling barbs, each securing itself in her mind before she could dare to doubt. The air in her mouth turned to ash, her voice dying within her throat, as terror clawed at her back, ripping into her flesh to become a permanent fixture wrapped around her muscle and sinew. Her body began to shake as though she had been left naked in the midst of a sudden blizzard, her limbs growing numb as the gale of his words slapped the air from her lungs with painful force. Her stomach fell into her pear-buttoned boots…

An Estate carriage was on its way.

**********

The Goblin King was no stranger to injury— his immense power all but welcomed bloodshed, on and off the battlefield; many desperate to usurp all that he had and held dear. Going against tradition, he led his men into the horrifying abyss of war, fighting alongside them despite the threat to his own life, and consequently the throne. His advisers were passionate in their protestations, pleading for him to remain beyond the palace walls; nevertheless, their agita remained unheeded. 

If he was not willing to die for them, how could ask the same? 

Charging head-long into battle painted scars of varying shapes and sizes over his impressive form, some far more noticeable than the rest. With operose vividity he could recount every last one, even the most minuscule white dashes littering his palms, and the vicious criss-crossing welts puckered along his spine. Each held their own lesson in fruition, some gifted from his bravery in combat, others the lasting witness of his father’s brutish education and perverse punishments.

Despite his growing consciousness, the greyish pallor of sickness remained, as did the incessant shivering and sweat-soaked brow. Numerous lesions, stitched together with stark black thread, transversed his body in angry crossing lines like those of a haphazardly sewn rag doll. He presented a rather ugly, if not altogether shocking, visage, lying atop the red-muddied sheets, ruined from both is blood, sweat, and tears. He had never looked worse. 

Yet none of his injuries, be it enemy or kin, held a candle to the excruciating inferno ripping through the last shreds of his lingering consciousness. He drifted in and out. Slow and thick, his blood ran like honey in his veins, while sleep claimed him and the potions worked their magic. In those eternal minutes where wakefulness brought with it the vicious reminder of his predicament, he could do little more than saltate between his suffering and the girl who thrust him from her presence.

Swirling, slipping, falling one into the next, never lingering long enough to disturb his healing heart, images danced gracefully behind his unique irises. The first was of the weeping brunette, her green eyes swimming in the salty pool of her fear, those last words, gut-wrenching and sibilated. _I asked nothing! No! NO!_ Her beautiful hands covered her gaping mouth as she watched on in horror. The memory became mist, melting into the sight of her radiant unbridled laughter, the moonlight caressing the feminine curve of her brow as she let her delight permeate the lakeside, before it too rippled into another treasured vision.

The sight of her dirt-smudged face was lit with something akin to desire and longing as she made her way nearer. Cheeks rosed from the chilled autumn breeze, her lips curving into the smile reserved wholly for him, she beamed. The wish had come from a place or want, of longing, not fear or anger like before. He savored that simple truth.

Minutes turned to hours, lost in the hazed-blur of faithfully administered sleeping draughts and healing tonics, and the dreams dissolved, forgotten one into the next. He managed to cling, waking and sleeping, to the warm lemon and rosewater scent that had broken into his stupor— though it too was a fading memory. He held to it like an anchor; as long as he held it, he knew he was alive and could not possibly have hallucinated his horrendous transformation.

No part of him truly believed that his seemingly eternal agony was a fabrication of his mind; even if he had, the worried voices of both Emere and the sea of healers had dissuaded him of such foolish thoughts. The cockcrow was hours behind him, and the sun now at its highest point, shone through thin organza clouds streaking across the crisp azure sky. The beams spread their golden fingers across thee floor reaching to relieve the gloom. What should have been a soothing, calming scene was the picturesque backdrop of his ever racing thoughts— thoughts of _her._

Over the last several days, trapped between pain and sleep, he felt her dreams calling at the edge of his psyche. That aberrant sensation was a beacon, the light on the turbulent sea of his suffering, calling to him over thunderous storm. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to ease her heart, but he was as bound to his sickbed as a murderer to his cell, locked away indefinitely. Trapped in the swirling vortex of his mind, he lay tormented by the siren song of her mind.

She had called to him— once, in the final hours before dawn. He heard the sobbing edge in her voice as whispered to him, the panic crackling in those final words, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. Her mistake had left him far too broken, too wounded to leave the blood-stained sheets and ease her own internal suffering. Well enough to auscultate her words, but too fragile rise from his bed, he could no more than listen. The wish carried on the breeze to dance through the open window and settle in his ear, taunting him with her siren song.

The notion to go to her faded as sleep claimed him once more…

**********

Sarah stared back at Blythe in horror. His eyes mirrored hers as a wave of nausea slammed against her stomach, and she was helpless to the rapid gasping breaths that sputtered from her lips. “There must be some mistake— oh God! Please! Please, you cannot let them take me!”

“Lefroy will do what he can, but Sarah, there is no guarantee.” His frown deepened as he clasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his withered gaze. He was afraid. Sarah could see it written bold, unbridled in his eyes, and the realization terrified her. Blythe was the bravest man she knew, if he were scared, there was a very good reason. His fingers squeezed against her biceps, confirming his own sense of unease. “I will speak on your behalf, but you must prepare for the worst.”

Helpless, her tears leaked from her evergreen eyes, her lips trembled as she fought the urge to faint. “I d-do not understand… why _me?”_

A knock on the door startled the occupants, and Constance moved to answer, her own hands shaking with worry. Outside the room waited a stern-faced Richard Lefroy, who stood with hands clasped firmly behind his back, a very unpleasant look tugging his brow. Beside him stood both Elswick brothers: the physician and priest, the latter wearing a concerned and quite putout expression while the other appeared distinctly pleased. 

More surprising, and far more troubling, were the two men standing at the farthest corner of the church, just behind the pews, where confused guests were murmuring to one another, no doubt discussing the waiting carriage. There was no mistaking an Estate carriage for a common buggy or luxurious barouche, and the result was the wagging tongues of the many onlookers watching unabashedly from their benches. Each man was dressed in dark breeches and matching frocks, and from her vantage point she could see the candlelight reflected in the high-shine of their too-polished boots. They were formidable, imposing, and Constance could not help the shiver that raced down her spine at the very sight of them.

Glancing between the three men standing only inches from her, the matron waited, deciding it was best to hold her tongue rather than divulge unwanted information. After a moment Father Elswick cleared his throat, offering a weak, but genuine smile, “might we have a moment with Miss. Williams?” When she did not immediately respond, the man’s nostril twitched; his grin faltered. “I believe this conversation would best handled out of prying eyes,” he motioned conspicuously to the crowd behind him. “Do you not agree Mrs. Tillens?” 

Another, strained moment passed, then at long last she stepped back, ushering the three into the small room. Nodding to each as they passed, the men promptly ignored her, their gazes fixated on the frightened girl standing at the window.

Richard moved to stand beside Blythe, who had placed himself before Sarah, the two effectively shielding her from the others. He took in her red-rimmed eyes and the fresh tear tracks shimmering on her cheeks. Frowning at the blatant signs of her distress, he moved a hand to brush against her hers. Sarah grasped his with breaking force, peering up through her lashes, she moved a breath closer, drawing comfort from their joined hands. “Explain your presence here, you are delaying our wedding,” he bit, the rancor obvious as he glared daggers at the still-pleased doctor.

“Now, now, there is no need for such hostility,” Harold Elswick said as though he were addressing a simpleton, a strange glint lighting his silver eyes. “I am here for Sarah Williams and will take my leave the moment she is within my care.”

“Your _care?”_ Blythe parroted incredulously, his voice raising higher than usual. “Your care, as you so inadequately put it, is torture! At least those locked in Bedlam are true lunatics, the Estate filled with innocent victims—”

“Mr. Tillens, have you ever visited my workplace? Have you seen this alleged depravity with your own eyes, or are you so simpleminded as to believe the rumors of vagabonds?” Harold sneered, lifting his chin indignantly.

“Gentlemen, please!” Constance called from her place at the door. “Now, Doctor Elswick, will you please enlighten us as to the charges that bring you and your carriage here? Or did you come for the ceremony? Otherwise, I speak for myself and the others asking you to see yourself out.”

Tugging at the hem of his heavily embroidered vest, the greying physician grunted noncommittally. “Yes, well,” he grumbled under his breath, his finger twitched, and he tucked one hand loosely between the ivory buttons at his chest, standing taller. “Sarah Williams, you stand accused of perversive fornication, thereby breaking the contract of your engagement to one, Richard Lefroy. You are to be taken to Saint Paul’s Sanctuary for the Deranged, Indecorous, and Obscene, where you will be questioned, and brought to heel, before the Almighty God.”

“How dare you!” Richard growled, his voice holding a newfound malice that made Sarah tremble, unconsciously squeezing his hand tighter. “You dare to come here insulting my bride! I demand to know who made such vulgar allegations! I will not stand for this, move aside and let us pass.” Turning to acknowledge the black-frocked priest who stood silent in the corner, eyes wide and uncertain, Lefroy barked. “The wedding will continue as planned.” His grip tightened as he surged forward dragging Sarah, who crashed indelicately against his back, to the door. 

Shocked, the doctor stood aghast, nostrils flaring in newfound anger as he stepped between the couple. “I will remind you, sir, that I am an agent of the Holy Church, and the people. I have the a warrant to place her within the walls of the Estate, and by God I will!” he spat, his face growing redder by the second, “Here!” he said, thrusting a rolled parchment sealed with blood red wax and black ribbon against Richard’s silver waistcoat with a snarl. “Make no mistake,” his voice grew lower, villainous. “I will send for the constable if you cannot comply with the law.” A mock smile lifted his bushed brow, his eyes deviant as a snide smile split his face. “My sympathies Lefroy, I can only imagine what you must be feeling; any man would be furious to know his wife, or bride this instance, is a trollop.”

Instantly, the man flew backwards, the women yelped, their hands flying to their mouths as they watched him fall haplessly to the ground. Blood seeped from his now-broken nose, catching along his upper lip before his hand could cover the damage. His wild curse could no doubt be heard throughout the congested chapel. Blythe growled, chest heaving, his hand bore the darkening red smudges from where his knuckles made contact, but he paid it no mind. He was fuming, snarling like a caged animal, his eyes murderous.

“Stop this!” called the priest, moving to block his brother from view. A hand raised to pacify the enraged group. “Please! Violence will not be tolerated in the House of God!”

Lefroy appraised the man at his side, gifting a genuine, rakish grin. “My thanks, Tillens.” Clapping the man on the shoulder, good-naturedly. “You were much faster than I could hope to be. I am in your debt.” At that, Blythe offered a curt nod, his anger still to palpable to speak, but Richard understood. His appreciative smile vanished as he looked to the heap on the floor. The man was awake, groaning and livid, his the white cloth quickly staining red. “You have insulted my bride for the last time. I promise you will not find another opportunity.”

“You’ll pay for this.” Harold winced, raising gracelessly, but not before snatching the discarded parchment from where it landed at his silver-buckled feet. Cracking the crimson seal, he used both hands to unroll it, and began reading. Pretending not to notice the little droplets leaking from his ever-swelling nose; even when two splashed audibly, he read on. “The signed witness, who shall remain anonymous at this time, has sworn before God and the constable that the testimony is, without a doubt, the undeniable truth.” 

Clearing his throat to calm the murmurs emitting from all but his kin, he read on louder, despite the ache in the center of his face. “One week syne, on the night of October the twenty fourth, in the seventeen hundred and seventy second year of our Lord, one Sarah Williams was seen wrapped in the arms of a man, who was not her intended, on the bank of the Mirada Ruins Lake. However, I must finish the recount by adding that Ms. Williams was not simply seen in the embrace of another man, but something altogether more intimate.” 

A collective gasp broke the sudden tension as Sarah stepped back, releasing herself from Richard’s hold. Before she could speak in her defense, Constance asked, “you cannot say who accuses her of such a crime, but yet you take their words at full value?” Scoffing she stepped forward. “My husband had oft accompanied Sarah to the lake. It had been a refuge of theirs since childhood— are you suggesting that he has been unfaithful to me?”

“The constable seemed to be of the same opinion, Mrs. Tillens, and begged a further description and details pertaining to Miss. Williams and the her companion.” A wide, toothy grin spread over Elswick’s lips, the bloodied mess churning more than one stomach at the gross display. Triumphant, he continued, reading from the stained scroll, as an eerie sort of joviality lifted his tenor. “Description reads as follows: taller than usual, one full head over the accused, dressed in an odd sort of black leather. Wild, unruly pale hair, more specifically an odd white-yellow, styled in disarray. The man in question could not, unfortunately be identified.” Looking up to the crowd, he was pleased to find them all transfixed.

“This is absurd.” Richard laughed humorlessly, stepped away from the doctor, reclaiming his hold on Sarah’s hand. “Whomever is to blame for this egregious quagmire is trying to destroy not only Miss. Williams reputation, but my own by association. I was at that Godforsaken lake on the night in question. Father Elswick can attest to my attendance; it was he who pointed the way, if I do recall. In fact it was he who sent the letter—” he trailed on, attesting to her innocence and loneliness at that secreted place. 

Sarah heard his voice but not the words, her head swimming with the realization she had been caught. She had been seen. The report had been disturbing, but worse still, accurate. The idea made her sick, as her face flushed at the memories of that night and the company she shared. A pang of longing entered, unwelcome into her heart at the thought of the Goblin King, and it was all she could do to brush the hurt into the back of her mind, where her guilt and shame could swallow it whole.

Torn suddenly from her wayward thoughts by a forceful tug at her elbow, Sarah started, gulping down a gasp at the contemptuous look radiating from Blythe. His fingers dug into her arm, as he pulled her a fraction closer, growling low. “The man from your dreams?” The white of her eyes were far too visible as she stared horrified back, silently pleading for his silence. “The man with mismatched eyes? It was _real?”_

“Blythe, _don’t.”_ She hissed.

“What you said last night—” his voice fell away, his eyes sweeping the floor, disbelieving. “No! No, you would never be so reckless! What were you thinking?!” His voice had raised, much too loud to be kept between the pair. “How coul—”

_“STOP!”_ she cried, suddenly aware the room had gone silent once more. Petrified, she dared a glance at her fiancé. Her heart thundered in her breast, threatening to burst from her ribs with shattering force. She needn’t look at her hands to know they were trembling, nor a mirror to see that the color had drained from her face. 

Cautiously, Father Elswick stepped forward, his brow marred with heavy creases. “My child, have you reason to confess? Have you met with a stranger— a man— under the shroud of night?” A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but she said nothing, her gaze still fixated on the stern purse of Richard’s lips. It was all the confirmation he needed. “Oh, my child, confession will ease your soul.”

Her head shook much too fervently. Every line, every feature, every crease digging her further into the ever-darkening pit. Trembling wildly, from both panic and fear, Sarah could do nothing but whimper. The dead, hollow look emanating from her eyes, seared through Blythe’s soul, and he knew his mistake. 

“Sarah? It can’t true—” Richard asked airily, his voice filled with doubt. The single tear became two, then three, and soon the flood poured, her denial unconvincing. He stepped back, turning to face her fully, hurt emanating from every pore before burning away to unfettered anger. An anger she had hoped to never witness. “After all I have done for you— this is how you repay me?”

Reaching for him, her fingers latched on his shoulder, her nails digging into the fine fabric of his coat. “No! Please, I never meant—” her words faltered as she searched for an explanation that would not damn her further. She found none. Panicked, her mouth ran away before her mind could stop the torrential onslaught of truths as they poured from her lips. “It was an accident, I never meant to call to him. He was a figment of my imagination— he wasn’t real. But then I wished and suddenly he was there… a-a-and I—” her hand slapped over her mouth with a loud sting. Taking a step back, she swayed on the spot, her grip going slack as the room spun.

Far away, the door opened and words were exchanged, but Sarah heard nothing over the roar of blood in her ears. Crumpling to the floor like the wilting petals of a withered rose, her tenuous hold on rationality crumbled like tower of cards, and her arms wrapped around her middle. _What have I done?_ By her own confession she had sealed her fate, driving away the last vestiges of doubt with her own foolishness. 

_What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You know what to do!


	19. Chapter 19

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

_Unheard screams in the dark…  
Ribbons of crimson flesh…  
Silence._

The biting cold woke her. 

Violent tremors wracked her slight frame, shooting up her spine and back into her naked toes. Where were her stockings? Her shoes? Where was she? Laying on cold stone, the unforgiving surface siphoned the last echo of warmth from her core. It was dark— too dark to see more than the pale hand trembling near her frozen lips. Her ragged breaths, puffed against her fingers, were not enough to heat her trembling hands— even her lungs seemed coated in frost. How long had she been here? Why was she in such pain?

_The Estate._

For a moment she had forgotten where she was, despite her horrific discomfort, until the continued blackness drew her clarity. She had done this to herself. A slip of the tongue during a moment of weakness, damning her to this Godforsaken place. Forgetting his hurt, Richard Lefroy had done all he could to save her from this place and the horrors within. Adamant that the testimony against her was an erroneous ruse, though by whom he could not fathom, he had tried to pacify the guards waiting in the chapel. The Tillens also had petitioned her release, but it had not been enough. Too many questions were raised, the answers growing more and more ludicrous as the hole beneath her feet deepened. 

Supposed licentiousness had brought the carriage, yet in the end, the lock had turned and the bars slammed shut because phantasmal visitors, dreamed or not, were far greater cause for concern. Piceous messengers were undoubtedly servants of Lucifer, and though she had not signed her name, her soul was in great peril. Father Elswick had been beside himself, obdurate and filled with religious panic, the man had proclaimed her bewitched— possessed. Seduced by the false promises of the Devil she was a marked woman awaiting her punishment.

The guards had taken her then, each wrapping a thick, heavy hand around her biceps as an iron clamp. Her heart thundered in her ears, every nerve ending fired in panic as they ushered her through the open doorway. Instinct took over as her body flailed against her jailers, her objections rising to an plangent shriek as they moved closer to the chapel doors. The men at her side jerked her forward and she fell to her knees at the sudden jostling, her arms twisting painfully as they maintained their hold. Her foot scored along the stone tiles dislodging her shoe, tearing the stocking and flesh beneath. 

The more she fought, the angrier the guards became, each grunting under stark obscenities in turn. When her heal raised to slam against the bridge of a foot, forcing a hiss from her captor, his grip loosened. An instant later the back of his hand slapped violently against cheek, splitting her lip. She sagged, allowing them to pull her from the church, offering no protest as her world spun. 

Finally, Sarah regained enough sense to being her struggle anew. Her screams growing hysterical, until, with a deep growl, a fist slammed with blinding force against her head. Stars flashed behind her eyes, vomit rose in her throat, and her muscles suddenly went lax as darkness claimed her.

A sound beyond her own tumultuous gulps of air, drew her from her bleak reverie, a faint stirring of sorts that surrounded her prison. Small sounds emitting from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Dry and empty, the metallic tang of copper filled her mouth, and the slightest movement of her jaw, and the turn of her neck, split her head in two. A silent cry barreled through her as the pain burst around her skull, leaking into the sockets of her eyes, from which her tears dripped into the void. 

The sharp, needling pain returned; her extremities were numb— almost, save for the piercing bite that seemed to cut through the haze. It was a strange sensation: the stinging cold, a balm of warmth and the foreign tickle along her flesh. Wincing, she attempted to pull her knees closer to her chest, but her body could not curl any tighter. The movement shifted her feet and the stinging, burning stab began anew, this time she was unable to contain her mewling cry. Gasping, at the rustling under her skirts, Sarah tried to ignore the foreign brushes against her calves and the sharp pinch at her toes. The strange smell finally reached her, assaulting her senses with a bitter pungency, it made her nausea swell and her stomach clench, but she did not retch. When a faint tickle brushed against her nose, as a weight burrowed through her hair. She screamed, jarring her head backwards, the throb crescendoing until she felt faint.

_Rats._

She could hear them scurry around her, brushing against her skirt, her hands, her feet until she could stand it no longer. Dragging herself to sit upright, nausea crippling her from the movement as her fingers dove viciously into her nested hair, grateful to find it unoccupied. Trembling, her arms wrapped around her knees as she choked on her tears, trying to ignore the throbbing sting left by the blunted teeth. Against her will, she burst into sobs. 

What had she done?

What had she done? 

**********

Emere Havron sat in a chair in the royal bedchamber with his feet propped on the stone edge of the large stained glass window, cursing the creature who invented port. His indulgence had reached a fever pitch with the certainty that broken man would live. Glass after glass, he tossed back the potent substance, every swallow dulling the horrific panic, until he was to inebriated to remember his own name. 

Alas, the sun rose as it must, dragging his drunkenness into the morning to shatter into pain and regret. His head throbbed and his eyes stung as he watched the burnt embers of the setting sun. Even his fingers, that were rubbing slow, methodical circles against his temples throbbed from drunkenness. The very soles of his feet seemed to ache, but he was not entirely certain— he had lost feeling below the knee hours ago. 

The glass in his hand was empty, as it had been for the last two hours. For the first time in over a week he did not hear the song of liquor begging him to subdue his fears at the bottom of a bottle. His anxiousness had not fled him entirely, waiting at the edges of his nerves to pool at the base of his spine. After days of uncertainty, fading in and out of consciousness and fevered murmuring, the king was at long last, awake. 

Two days had passed since he had called out from his sickbed, demanding to know where the girl was and how she fared. His mismatched eyes were wild, crazed, as he rasped, “Is she safe?” The hoarse voice cracked as his piercing gaze rooted Emere to his place beside the bed. When he did not answer, the question became desperate, pressed through gritted teeth. “Is. She. Safe?”

Emere could offer nothing, save for a look of incredulous confusion, as a visible well of panic and unbridled fear threatened to drown the trembling man where he lay resting against the wrinkled sheets. “Sarah—” he murmured, attempting to rise from the bed, only to be met with agonizing pain ripping down his spine. A grumbled cry rolled behind his lips as he fell back onto the thick down pillows with a hiss. Chest heaving, his panted breaths echoed throughout the ornate room, the ghost-white pallor still heavy on his sweat-dampened flesh. “Emere, we wer— weren’t alone.” Closing his eyes against the pain, he spat, “I heard footsteps in the woods.” 

The man made to move again, but was halted by a heavy arm baring on his shoulder. “Sire, please, you mustn’t move.”

“Someone was there, Emere!” 

“We can discuss this—”

“No! I _will_ find her!”

“You nearly died!” Emere bellowed, eyes wild and red, none of which could be blamed on his drinking. A thick rawness swelled in his throat, the emotions he had drowned at the bottom of a crystal decanter coursed through his veins, sobering him further.

There was a strain in his baritone that had little to do with the injuries confining him to the bed, understanding dawning on his clouded mind. “I need to find her,” he whispered, his eyes closed as he quelled his fears, her visage flashing unbidden, taunting him. The gentle scent of lemon and rose, ink and parchment, the touch of her lips, the melodic song of her laugh. The crunching of twigs. The threat of another. His memories faded to nightmare, and her pallid, fear-pinched face reechoed, as she muttered her wish.

_I wish you would go._ The sibilated command uttered under breath, an afterthought. A turn of phrase as wicked as a master swordsman on the field of battle, brandished and shining in the fading sun. _I wish you would go._

_I wish you would go._

His eyes lifted, meeting the deep obsidian pools still warily studying him. Suddenly finding the need to explain himself, he offered uselessly. “She begged me to leave, Emere. She begged!” Scrunching his nose, he shook his head, ignoring the nausea rising from his core. “Someone was there— moving through the trees— I went to defend her, but she fought me! Her fears lay upon discovery not the identity of the intruder.” A growl escaped him, the anger from her senseless propriety twitched his nostrils, “I ignored her pleas for my departure, I could not leave—”

“A _mortal_ did this to you?! Who was he? How?”

“No— I never saw them, she wished before—”

“The girl _wished—”_ His mouth dropped open, his brows shooting to his hairline as he blinked in rapid succession. “A wish did this to you?” His eyes scanned the prone figure, staring dumbfounded. “Why? Why would she wish injury upon you?” Emere had not thought her capable of such insidious cruelty, though he had only glimpsed images of her through the crystal memories he was certain of her character. How could he have been so wrong? The girl seemed incapable of hurting even the lowliest of creatures, much less the King of the Goblin Throne.

“Another impossibility from the impossible girl.” Dragging a hand roughly across his scruff, he sniffed, frowning. “I had not thought her capable— what was her wish? Had she intended to kill you?”

“No! No, it was a mistake. A terrible mistake.” With a slow breath, the king whispered, “Here, see for yourself, my friend.” Wanting to give the memory for inspection, he lifted his free hand, bringing his fingers together as a light teetered on the top of the uneven ridge. The glow fluttered and faded, sputtering along his shaking hand. Twice he tried, but the light simply snuffed like an ember underfoot. No crystal teetered, rolled or danced along his fingers, only the stagnant too-close air of his infirmary touched his bare, chalky skin. 

Enervated, he sighed, feeling his damaged magic taunting him just beyond his reach. He could do nothing to drag it nearer, to grasp it within his soul or press it firm against his breast. Try as he might he could not conjure the ball nor place a memory within. Discouraged, he frowned, “It appears that I cannot yet show you, but I swear upon my throne that she never intended me harm. It was a thoughtless phrase murmured in the throes of alarm.” 

Whilst his adviser pondered the newfound revelations, the Goblin King agonized over the fate of his precious Riddle. Who was there that night? What had they done to the hysterical girl sobbing on the shore? Vaguely, he recalled a whimpered, sibilated wish in the blackest, coldest hours before dawn, whether memory or fabrication the sound of her voice broken weak haunted the deepest vestiges of sleep. Never had she sounded so heartbroken. Never had he wanted to respond as he had in those moments, trapped within his own dreams, useless to the beautiful, miserable girl. Such reckless abandon flooded his senses, pumping adrenaline into his limbs like kindling to a flame. It had been hours since that sound tormented him last, the horrendous ululated whisper shredding the last of his good sense. 

Shooting from the pillows like a man possessed, he sat up in bed, unaware of the sutures splitting across his chest, blossoming crimson from his efforts. “I have to find her.” Tossing the sheets aside, he jolted at the sight of his naked body, still mapped by the black threads across his torso, his lifeblood leaking seeping from the too-fresh seams. Blinking back his shock, the king grimaced, sliding his legs to the edge of the mattress as white-hot flames shot up his spine.

“You mustn’t move, sire. You are no good to her if you cannot stand.” Emere stepped forward, bending to grasp a bared ankle and return it to the bed before doing the same with the other. Replacing the layers of blankets atop the grotesque, healing body, his hands moving to press heavily against trembling shoulders. He was met with little resistance, and too easily the king was laying prone once more. “Sire, you must rest” his frown morphing into a reassuring grin, filled with a sad understanding. “You are too weak. Your magic is too weak. I swear to you, we will find her— but we can do nothing until you are well again.” 

Folding his arms across his chest, the adviser stared down with pinched brow and pursed lips. His thoughts raced, each vying to be a prominent feature in his troubled mind, until at last the most pressing question took hold. “While you cannot conjure the memory for my viewing, perhaps your could recount the tale first?” The king nodded silently from the bed, his eyes fixed absently on the far wall as he awaited the inevitable inquiry. “What do you remember, your Grace?”

He felt his mouth go dry, and he reached a hand for the goblet waiting just beyond his limited reach. At the sudden movement Emere moved forward perching on the edge of the bed, bringing the ornate glass to the parched, waiting lips. The king was stalling, drinking a slow, languid swallow. Replacing the goblet on the side table, the adviser sat straight, studying the king as if he were about to confess a shocking sin.

“The night began as usual, Sarah made her wish and we met at the lakeside beneath the growing cover of stars. No— that is not right. I was angry. Livid. Her wish was late and I was worried.” Wincing at the memory of his cruelty that sent her careening into the trees, horrified. The Goblin King continued recounting the evening to the best of his ability, limiting the details to maintain some semblance of privacy. “I answered what little I could, despite her reluctance to ask. I heard crunching underfoot, much too far for her ears, drew nearer. I asked if she was expecting someone, and though she was to be escorted home, it was to be with two companions. The fiend in the trees was alone.”

He watched the expressions flit across Emere’s tanned face, a deep crease wrinkled between his dark, salted brows. “I warned her to stay behind me. She would not listen.” Rubbing his hand over the growing stubble at his chin, he rolled his jaw in his hand. “Her concern was not with the approaching stranger, nor her own safety. Her fear lay with the loss of her reputation! My presence at the lake threatened her virtue, though I can assure you I had done nothing to jeopardize it, and she was desperate for my absence.” His hand tangled in his thick, leucous mane, his eyes scrunching closed. “Her reputation was of more import than her life. _Her life!_ I was not going to leave her to their mercy!” Shooting his companion a scathing, rancorous look, “Sarah begged for me to take my leave, but despite her insistence I refused.” Rolling his head away, he pressed on, his voice thick and morose. “I could not stand idly by. Not again.”

The silence stretched between them, Emere dared not speak as he awaited the last of the strange, horrible tale. Chiming into the vast room the clock signaled the next hour, pulling both men from the stew of their thoughts. One by one the chimes sang out, until the twelfth and final, deep note faded into silence, the solid, steady ticking the only sound. 

_“I wish you would go…”_ sorrow settled deep within the mismatched eyes, “I wish you would go, she muttered the words under her breath absentmindedly. Unaware of the power of her words until it was too late.” Swallowing hard, he slid his hand along his face, his hand lingering at his mouth. “I do not know what happened after. My world was reduced to pain. An unbearable, encompassing pain far greater than any I had know swallowed me within its gaping maw. My flesh was on fire, my bones shattered into a thousand razor sharp pieces, each stabbing violently within me.” His gaze softened, a faraway look relaxing the creases at his eyes. “The rest is fragmented memories of voices, pain and sleep.”

Standing slowly, Emere paced to the window, his lips pressed in a hard line. “She unwittingly—” he began, half turning to face the bed before pivoting away once more. His voice was slow, calculated, the tone austere. “The girl, Sarah, unconsciously wished you away, nearly killing you with a forced, heinous transformation. A simple phrase uttered under her breath, a thought she no doubt never intended to vocalize…” he allowed his voice to fade away, his words dying on the air. A dangerous expression, filled with both foreboding and fear, darkened his face and hardened his eyes. 

“What would have happened had her words been intentional?”

**********

It could have been hours, days, or weeks for all she knew. It could have been no more than ten minutes. If she could have seen something— anything— perhaps she could have borne it better. For as much as the pain unhinged her, it was the plain fact that teeth were gnawing, ripping into her flesh, coming unseen and indomitable in their onslaught, that drove her past the brink of hysteria and into some nightmarish place she could not seem to escape.

Whimpering, Sarah swallowed her panic, praying that this was another vivid dream aggravating the wounds of her fear. _Yes! Yes, this must be a dream!_ But even as she tried, even she could not be convinced of the lie. The aching burn of her empty stomach could not serve as an accurate clock, and with the lack of light she was utterly discombobulated. In three days she had eaten little more than scraps, the pain a constant fixture that she had long since ignored. Now it was much stronger, and far more distracting. Sarah was no stranger to hunger, her father had seen to that with every coin he lost to a whore or a card.   
Eventually the door she had huddled against swung wide, depositing her into the corridor before she could begin to react. There was no sound, but for the constant ringing in her ears. Sightlessly she stared into the muted brightness that refused to resolve itself into any discernible surrounding. A rich earthy scent lingered in the hall, like the smell of a graveyard in the mist— vastly different from the pungent stench of her confinement. 

When hands touched her shoulders, she screamed, a ragged breathy sound that was little more than a whisper, sliding back along the stone floor. Inch by inch she made her way blindly backwards, her hand grated, the skin shredding, droplets of blood marking her path. The pain in her head had not ceased to throb, pulsing against her skull like an ax into wood, it limited her vision, pulling nausea up her too-dry throat. The man had followed her, watching her struggle along the dirty corridor until her muscles grew too frail to continue.

Shielding her face, her forearms crossed as her eyes slammed shut. The solid thump of his boot falls on the floor drew nearer and nearer, until falling silent a breath from her fear-twisted brow. His hands touched at her wrists, ensnaring both within a single palm, she shrieked, feebly fighting against the stronghold, her arms twisting backward, until with a wail, her left dislodged from the socket. 

Her thrashing ceased, an arm hanging limp at her side, the pain sparking into her neck and chest as the guard resumed his task, prompted by her sudden stillness. Releasing her wrists he bent forward, understanding the fight had died within her. The man was clearly unperturbed by her anguish, grunting as he scooped her from the ground, pressing her against the unyielding wall of his chest. He ignored her continued whimpers and pules.

Sarah screwed her bloodshot eyes shut once more, the ringing in her ears grew to a fever pitch as the heinous sounds echoed around her. The screeching sobs and chaotic wailing tied the unpleasant ribbons of unintelligible obsecratings that ricocheted in the stone tombs, grating against the mortar. Thick and stagnant, the air was a queer mix of hot and cold, pregnant from the sour breaths of the lunatics and freaks hidden away beneath the earth, waiting to be forgotten. She was one of them now. A number in the ranks of the madhouse, left in the darkness to be cured or forgotten, whichever came first. 

She was certain she knew the answer.

The walk could have taken minutes or been a handful steps from where she had been locked away, it mattered little to her pain-addled brain. Her shoulder ached, her head throbbed making her vision swam as her feet and legs burned. Her limbs felt heavy, hanging laxly over muscled arms, the tips of her fingers stiff and weak. Each blink longer than the last, the oblivion of sleep a siren song, caressing the edges of her pain, promising a brief respite from her troubles.

She succumbed willingly to the darkness.

__________________________________________________________

Edith Milburn shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers caressing the cool, smooth metal of her crucifix, her gaze fixed on the iron door. Why was she so anxious? It was not as though this was her first Cleansing, nor even her second or third, it was in fact her tenth (though she, herself had ceased to count after five) and there was no logical reason for her nerves to stand on edge. While others were being gently, but firmly, ordered about, she was left to wait exactly as she was.

Another, more ill-tempered woman whose status was much higher than Sister Edith, stood with all the presence of a king in the midst of the proceedings. Her keen grey eyes took in everything, and her tongue was as perpetually in motion as the women moving hastily about the room. With a final turn about, the woman raised her hands and clapped twice, the sound far too loud in the stone hall, but the message was clear. 

It was time.

Scuttling out of the room, the precession of Holy women left, returning to their daily tasks with naught but ten words between them. A solemnity hung as smoke, tainting the air with its bitter taste and gritty breaths, the cloud settling one by one until each was soaked through. The woman turned to Edith, sweeping over her with a shrewd, meticulous stare before nodding sharply, and moving to the door. Smoothing her hands along the front of her Habit, Agatha Wesson rose to her impressive height, and waited, the numerous wrinkles deepening severely as she pursed her lips. 

A booming knock hammered against the metal door, neither woman startled at the abrupt sound, “Enter.” Wesson called, the rasp of her voice adding an air of masculinity. The door swung open almost soundlessly, the faint grinding of the hinges breaking the silence as the guard, known to his friends as Louis, stalked into the large room, his arms burdened with the slight weight of a sleeping woman. The ameliorating feel of her warm, lithe form pressing against his chest stirred the dark pool of his desire, her beauty far greater than the rouged whores he could hardly afford to satisfy. Drawing her closer, he savored the tickle of her nest of hair brushing the underside of his jaw, the feel of her thighs pressed against his arm. 

Lifting his gaze from the swell of her breasts, straining against the elaborate brocade of her now ruined gown, Louis moved to the far end of the room, where a much younger nun anxiously awaited her charge. The numerous dark layers hid the luscious curves from his roving eyes, yet her delicate face was enough to further stoke the fire of his loins. Too long had he remained abstinent, the need to slake his lust simmered against his skin, flaring to life at the sound of her breathy pained whimper. 

God, how he wanted her!

Crisp azure eyes locked on the tall figure of the guard, devouring his movements as he drew nearer still. A forbidden fruit laying just beyond the flaming sword of sin, the man was temptation, though Edith was certain she would feel differently had she lived another life, one where galas and balls were as commonplace as maggots to rot. Had her mother been something other than a starving trollop leaving her on the steps of a convent, and her beauty nurtured not dejected, she might have discouraged his advances. 

She tumbled like a house of cards.

Louis was brazen, bold, taking every opportunity to seek out her touch. First, it had been his fingers whispering against her own in the narrow corridor. Edith started as though she had been burned, crashing against the damp stone wall with a dull thud. The roue met her horrified gaze with a wink, smirking as he continued onward, unvexed. Not a week later his fingers found hers again, purposefully skating over the sensitive skin of her palm before once again taking his leave. On and on the strange, but not wholly unwanted contact persisted, months rolling away into a year, until his hands had found other areas of her carefully covered figure. The secretive glances, airy brushes and twice stolen kisses were the forbidden episodical encounters highlighting her mundane existence.

Discretely she tried to garner his attention with the batting of her lashes, and the gentle chewing of her lip, but his gaze was focused elsewhere. He did not notice the frown that wrinkled her brow as he bent to place the fragile girl on the large stone slab.

Transfixed with the brunette creature curled against his chest, could not resist the delicacy before him. Setting her atop the cold table, Louis allowed his fingers to caress the swell of her calf, curving under her knee to brush against her slender thigh. God! She was perfect! His other hand squeezed the nape of her neck once, twice, before coming to his senses and withdrawing his touch. 

He did not want to leave. The very idea of placing any amount of distance between himself and the unique, wilted flower rolled nauseatingly in the pit of his stomach. Never had he felt such gratitude towards the asylum and the loons locked within, but this woman was a gift. A rarity he would never have glimpsed otherwise, he was loath to lose her. Hesitating, he drank in her visage like a drunk to the bottle, savoring the sight of her laying prone, her dark, disheveled hair spread in a haphazard halo. Louis never wanted anything so desperately. Stalking silently from the room, he tossed a cursory glance over his shoulder, ignoring the wanton eyes watching from the far corner.

__________________________________________________________

Something was wrong.

The air was charged with unease, splintering across her flesh like a frosted breeze. Though the women proceeded in the same manner as with previous Cleansings, she could not deny the woeful foreboding raising the fine hairs on her neck. The girl lay with her eyes closed, whether sleeping or too weak to move Edith could not be sure, the voluminous folds of her dress bunched in wrinkled disarray about her bloodied ankles. Dark burgundy-brown stained the lilac brocade, mingling with bright crimson smears along her torn stockings ending in a pool of warm, wet blood against her toes.

The rat catcher was slipping.

With a gentle touch, Edith slowly rolled the torn remnants of fabric off the gouged legs, grimacing as they landed with a wet slap on the floor. Reaching for the hidden hooks tucked beneath the ruffles of the bodice, the gown was removed piece by piece, each layer blotched with filth and grime. The purple satin and silk mapped the signs of her imprisonment, the stink of rodent embedded in the delicate embroidery and lace trim. What was once a beautiful gown of luxury and wealth was now a mockery of its former self, lying in a dirty heap on the stones.

Rolling between slumber, and restless wakefulness the girl groaned softly as they continued their ministrations. Frowning, her head tossed from one side then the other, her whole body trembling from cold discomfort and throbbing pain. Exhaustion weighed her limbs, numbing her pain in small infrequent bursts as she shivering. Maintaining her silence, Agatha placed her hand against the trembling forehead, as a mother would her stricken infant, shushing her all the while. 

Eventually the girl calmed, allowing the older woman to proceed with her work unencumbered. Tossing aside her gentle repose for practiced stoicism, Agatha dragged her fingers through the birds nest tresses searching for the myriad of pins and adornments tangled within. Sliding her hands downward to unhook the long chain of a locket, and the teardrop pearl earrings, both removed with only an ounce of finesse and care. 

Glancing to her companion, who was diligently wiping the still-dripping blood from the slender legs, the seasoned nun nodded her approval, and continued with her work. Reaching into the tall chest of drawers nestled beside the closed door, she removed a heavy pair of shears and a large, wooden brush before returning to her charge.

Methodically, the brush removed each gnarl and knot from the dark mane dragging root to end, the usual curls limp and dull from the harsh ministrations. Probing the dark locks for the small pins once more, she tore free the small metal hooks with the harsh bristles, until the mass was free of intrusions. Nodding curtly at her handiwork, she ran the brush through once more, before gathering a small portion together in one hand, and replacing one instrument for another.

Lifting the sheers, she began cutting, clump after clump after clump, sending long clusters to crash silently to the ground. Humming lightly to herself, a gentle hymn of her own design meant to quell the tenebrose cries of the patients, Agatha finished her routine task. 

The myriad of injuries littering the alabaster skin were now hidden beneath stark linen bandages, each having been scrubbed clean and smeared with poultice. The bloodied mess of her toes would require the physician, but they too had been wrapped carefully for the time being. The clatter of metal and leather rang out as a limp arm was raised to lay at the top corner of the table, the wrist cinched beneath a heavy silver buckle. Once each limb was secure in the shackles, the two women stepped back from the table, Edith moving to stoke the fire, before tossing another thick log atop the orange flames as her partner tugged on the frayed rope hanging near the mantel. 

It was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wanted to put more in this chapter, but if just felt right this way. What can I say? I hope you all like it! Please, as always review. I love hearing what you all think, it makes my day like you wouldn’t believe! Until next chapter? XOXO!


	20. Chapter 20

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.  
__________________________________________________________**

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

_The stars vanish from the sky._  
Endless falling…  
Fear… 

He had ridden the animal nearly to death in his pursuit of abeyance. His rage drove him onward, pushing the animal to breakneck speed for hours on end, his own muscles straining from the exertion, screaming for release. He ignored the burning in his sinew, the cramping of his legs and the ferocious pounding behind his eyes.

The effort had done little good; his mind had not eased, nor his ire soothed. Circumstances far beyond the impressive reach of his control, negated his meticulous planning, leaving him to stand alone in the murky puddle of his defeat. Growling, he pulled the reins, bringing the beast to an abrupt halt, dragging himself violently from the saddle.

The moment he dismounted— sprinting up the steps and into the grand lodge with an aggravated lightness of foot— the dangerous thrumming returned to his veins with cruel force. It was the same, wicked sensation that had driven him to the back of his mount, desperate to clear his volcanic thoughts. His muddied boots printed his stride along the red-checkered floor as he thrust the heavy, damp overcoat from his person, tossing it carelessly behind him before marching into the parlor. Gingerly he poured himself a drink, tossing it back so quickly he could not recall the faintest taste of the liquor, before he did the same with another. Then another.

His fourth glass was to be savored— sipped slowly until his mind became too fogged to remember his own name. It would take all night, but he was determined to forget before he began the brickwork for yet another sedulous plan. Stalking to stand before the fire which had been lit moments before his arrival by the unseen hands of his ghost-like servants, he stared blankly into the orange-white flames. Slamming his drink with near-breaking force into the wood of the mantel, he thrust his hands forward, bracing his palms against the well-polished surface growling low and long. _How had this happened?_

“Sir?”

The delicate voice pulled him from his bitter stewing, drawing his eyes from the twirling flames dancing within the hearth. Grunting an uncommitted response, he inclined his head toward the small, curious woman. Her arrival was not altogether unexpected; however, her presence in the parlor was a peculiarity— she was to be waiting in his private chambers. The muscle in his jaw twitched as his nostrils flared but he remained silent nonetheless, his piercing gaze slicing through her.

“Sir?” she repeated, remaining fixed at the door frame. Again he said nothing and merely dug his muscles into the mantel until his knuckles turned white. It was an awkward, unfriendly quiet that pulled the hairs at her neck to attention. Shaking the fear from her nerves, she offered a pouted lip and batted lashes. 

Demurely, her hand lifted with practiced grace to the brass clasp resting at the base of her throat, her fingers toying with the smooth metal as she darted her tongue to moisten her rosy lips. Taking a step closer, she took an exaggerated breath, the sharp movement lifting her ample chest to part the emerald velvet cloak draped about her shoulders. “You seem troubled,” she purred, daring to continue her pursuit until she was not but a hair from his scowling form, her long neck angled nearer still.

With tentative determination, she placed a hand against his straining bicep, her breath catching deep in her lungs as she awaited his response. When he did nothing to shun nor encourage her advances, she loosed the nettled sigh as quietly as possible, replacing her frown with a seductive smile. Shifting, she moved to stand behind him, running her hands up the tense expanse of his frock-covered back to settle at the base of his neck. Pressing her luck, the woman worked her fingers over the expensive fabric, digging skillfully into the thick knots tied under his taut muscles.

Her touch was unwanted yet welcomed nonetheless. The tension melted, dissipating into a fine mist far easier to ignore than the relentless thrumming that beat against skull only minutes before. His anger still lingered, lying in wait for his mind to call it to the forefront of his conscious. Groaning as her fingers shattered the clump of tension at the base of his neck, he closed his eyes, savoring the unexpected relief.

That was a mistake.

The instant his eyes shut, the darkened void flashed images of his rage against his psyche, each more enraging than the last. Echoing voices sang roundabout one another in a maddening chorus that further fueled his rancorous vehemence reminding him all the more of his egregious failure. Grinding his teeth, he rolled his neck, the hollow popping of his bones the only sound above the crackling fire, but the delicate fingers never ceased in their ministrations. Rather the pressure increased, the small digits sinking deeper into his flesh with slow, deliberate operose.

He moaned, low and dark. Succumbing to the myriad of sensation her hands offered, his stance grew lax and casual, his mouth parting the barest amount as he sighed heavily. His paid companion offered no complaint of tired fingers nor boredom— though with the hefty sum promised for discrete, and lengthy services was far beyond her usual clientele— and she played her role accordingly.

Eventually, the massage ended, but her hands remained lightly atop his form, sliding along the length of his arms, still perched on the mantel. Here and there her hands squeezed the flesh encased in a dark brocade as she rubbed gently across the luxurious satin. Rising to her toes, her chest pressed firmly against the broad expanse of his back; her fingers sneaked beneath his frock, signaling her desire for its absence. He obliged. Dropping his arms to his sides, he acquiesced, allowing her to slide the offending article from his person. Her fingers deftly untied the smart knot of his cravat, tugging the pressed linen from his neck, unfastening the buttons along his sternum.

“Allow me to ease your mind,” she hummed against his ear, her teeth nipping lightly at his lobe. She turned his head, forcing him to change his stance so that he could fully face her. “I have been told I am rather distracting.” Pushing away, she stood back, locking her wanton gaze with his. Slowly her hands lifted to her gaping cloak, the tips of her fingers gliding along the smooth mounds of her breasts before pulling the fabric away from her shoulders until it puddled on the floor.

He raked his eyes over her luscious figure, encased in an elaborate corset and whisper-thin shift. She was a feast to behold, and he greedily looked his fill. He growled darkly, his body responding to her bared beauty. She truly was stunning, round doe brown eyes framed by soft flaxen locks that begged to be wrapped around his hand in a daring grip. Her breasts, straining over the top of her embroidered corset, threatening to spill over and gift him with their visage, enticed him, beckoned him to slake his lust between their weighty globes. His body responded to the sight of her.

His mind did not.

He wanted another but in an altogether different capacity. The things he could do— would do— to the object of his desire. What he wouldn’t do. An idea caught in the web of his mind, thrusting against the sticky silk like a fly. His spider-thoughts snatched at the offered feast, devouring it in one swallow. All was not lost— this was an opportunity so long as he played his hand perfectly, and he intended to do just that. His thin lips curled into a vicious smile, his brows falling into a heavy frown as his thoughts darkened. Snapping his attention to the blonde, his voice was cruel and full of mockery. “Oh, yes, you will be a perfect distraction.” Unblinking, he stared, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. His smile morphed into a wicked, toothy sneer laced with licentious malice.

He rushed her. She gasped, taking a troubled step back, suddenly afraid. His hand gripped her bicep with bruising force, before spinning her violently away from him, exposing the laces of her corset, and the long locks of her mane. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he pulled her roughly against him, leaning close. “I am often forced to share,” he purred, licking the shell of her ear, “but tonight, you are mine and mine alone. I intend to savor this.” His grip on her hair grew fierce, painful— cruel. His hand slid up her arm, the bruises from his vice blossomed as his large paw encircled her throat. He squeezed lightly, testing the feel of her muscles, before choking her fully. 

A beautiful violet tinged the edges of her lips and around the reddened rim of her eyes; the sight was almost too much, and he released his hold before he lost the entirety of his control. The whore sputtered, spittle dripping from her mouth as the rosy color returned. Her gaze was murderous, even through the wash of tears pouring down her face, trickling onto her breasts. “I am going to enjoy this—” he hummed, pulling back a fraction, a snarl trapped in the back of his throat as he pressed his head against hers, inhaling the scent of lavender and sweat as he pressed her against him harder. “You will not.” His teeth bared down on her ear, hard. Blood seeped through the wound as she screamed, fighting against his hold.

He laughed, blood trailing from his lips onto her shoulder. Her weeping spurred his lust, fanning the flames of his desire. Running his free hand through her tresses, he curled his fingers in the mass closing his fist in an iron grip. Jerking her head back with painful, snapping force, her wide tear-filled eyes looked up to his pleading his release. Crashing his mouth to hers, he suckled and licked at her unresponsive lips, sunning his tongue along the trembling seam. Her distressed whimpers stirred his groin like a harlots feigned climatic moans, and the grip on her hair tightened, tilting her head to an agonizing angle.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced his lips as her teeth sunk into the tender flesh. Pulling her head viciously away, he stared down at her, his pupils dilated and wide. The muscles along his bloodied lips twitched, as her crying began anew. A manic smile parted his lips, revealing the red stained teeth, and puncture wound along his mouth. “You are perfect…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Puts hands up* Please don’t shoot! I know the chapter is short… but I am only the messenger! I hope you all like it. I know the story is getting dark but I have a plan. I promise I do not believe in darkness for the sake of darkness There is a purpose here— a plan— you all have to trust me! Please! Thanks for the reviews, honestly they mean the world to me! See you VERY soon!


	21. Chapter 21

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

_The stars vanish from the sky._  
The dreams have stopped.  
The dreams have stopped. 

The china clinked softly, the delicate bell ringing lightly into the pale blue sitting room, bathed in a warm, early-winter sun. Despite the incoming winter and the brisk bite in the air outside, the room was as warm and inviting as the late spring.

The bright smell of tea and coffee cakes permeated the air, mingling with the rich odor of hothouse roses and warm fires. The walls were lined with a cheery, floral wallpaper topped with heavy-framed landscapes and still-life paintings. The bright room was offset by the dark mahogany furniture and the pastel blue velvet cushions adorning them. It was a pleasant space to pass the time; the large windows faced full-south, offering the optimum sunlight for the dark, dank English winters. 

The wrinkled maid, whom had shouldered her way into the room, her arms laden with a polished silver tray, smiled at the pair seated on opposite chairs near the hearth. Well practiced in the placing and removing of the tea service, the servant effortlessly went about her business before acknowledging her mistress. With a quick curtsy, the navy-clad maid ushered herself from the beautiful room and the women within.

Sipping the hot tea whilst neglecting the small cakes and fruit tarts arranged neatly on the sliver tray, the pair remained pleasantly quiet. It was a jovial silence that neither seemed keen to disturb. Savoring the warm tea and crackling fire, each sat happily perusing the empty pages of their futures with great anticipation. 

It had been days since their secretive victory, and neither could quite comprehend how they had managed such an impressive feat. True, they had concocted a devious plot, but neither had fully believed in its fruition. How could they?

Though neither was wholly responsible for the tragic events of the prior week, both had been instrumental in the incarceration of Sarah Williams. 

Ironically enough, so had Sarah, herself. 

Mariah Bishop had not considered herself fortuitous when she caught sight of her rival wandering conspicuously along the cemetery wall. In fact, the sight of the girl had enraged her— so much so that she nearly bit through her lip trying to keep her scream of frustration at bay. 

Initially, Mariah turned back to the rectory, feeling a sudden need for prayer, wanting nothing to do with the disgraceful chit. She took two steps before intuition whispered the oddly seductive and illicit instinct to follow. 

Too well-mannered to succumb to such a ridiculous impulse, she inwardly scoffed, silently berating her own foolishness. That was, however, until she noticed the large basket and flickering lantern as the girl lifted each over the crumbling wall. A devious sense of curiosity overwhelmed her, and before Sarah could gain too much headway, she was trailing quietly behind.

Her skirts were tapped, tugged, and torn by the copious wooden fingers reaching towards her as she made her way behind the curious brunette. Her ire blinded her to the crawling, writhing creatures hidden about the trees and flora, her determination keeping her wits.

Certainly, she had not expected a lake to be tucked deep in the woods behind the weathered chapel, a single turret jutting from the glassy surface giving no indication as to its origin. The creature of her mind, green and raving as it was, could not conjure such a serendipitous sight as that of Sarah Williams standing intimately close to a stranger, his gloved fingers gently holding her chin, their mouths inches apart.

Wide as saucers, her eyes drank the licentious scene with gleeful fervor. I have you now, she thought before clapping a hand over her mouth, lest her elation give her away. She watched a moment longer, a pink blush rising to her cheeks. The pair was conversing, but the words were lost to her, standing so far away. Wanting nothing more than to draw closer, Mariah waited. 

Starting at the sound of raised voices, she paused, hoping to catch the barest utterance but, disappointingly the words were caught on the breeze. Her sudden gasp was mercifully stifled beneath her hand as a loud crack rent the air as Sarah’s hand connected with the stranger’s face. A giggle of laughter bubbled in Mariah’s chest, and she pressed her hand harder against her lips, biting her cheek until the copper tang of blood filled her mouth. 

The man whom she could only assume was a gypsy snatched Sarah by the shoulders seemingly unbothered by her previous violence. Another moment and the girl was flung away, and for the barest moment Mariah felt the brush of worry against her heart. His long, slender legs paced away from the queer girl, his hand tearing through his hair in visible frustration. 

Fascinated, Mariah took a tentative step forward, still hidden within the trees, her gaze lingering on the curious blonde. His very countenance demanded her attention, the inhumanly graceful movements sent a wave of warm shivers down her spine. The space between them did little to diminish his appeal; though she could not with crystalline clarity define his features, she could sense his allure— his power. 

Mariah could not deny she was tempted. 

Her skin heated— her stomach clenched delightfully the longer she stared. When he offered a perfect view of his face, the fading twilight and the distance between them obscured the intoxicating stranger from her blatant gandering. She resented the sun for setting.

His pacing was akin to a caged beast, like she had seen in the traveling fairs, striding back and forth, taming a raging tempest. A voice, deep in the recess of her mind hissed, slithering foreboding beneath her heavy layers, frosting her flesh. Her welcome had worn thin. 

A roar rent the greying dusk, both women shrieked, the boisterous sounds blending flawlessly into a single cry of terror. Paralyzed, Mariah held her breath, her feet locked in the dirt as if in chains. Congregating along her lower lash line, her tears waited, too frightened to trail along the curve of her cheek. The blur of sounds were followed instantly with a shattering of glass, and the scrambling of feet atop the pebbles.

Mariah had not lingered to witness more.

A throat cleared in the distance of her reverie, drawing her back to the sitting room, where Alberta Rossen was smirking over her teacup. She appeared years younger, her features suddenly softer; the harsh lines cut beside her eyes and around her mouth faded, almost by magic. It seemed malicious trouncing agreed with her.

“Bravo, my dear. Bravo,” the woman said, placing her cup atop the saucer. “Admittedly, I had my reservations. I dared not hope for fear of failure, but it seems my worries were all for naught. Congratulations!” Pinching her lips in a satisfied smirk, her voice was barely able to contain its excitement. “You were brilliant, my dear!”

Blushing, the younger woman ducked her head, trying to mask the swelling pride rising within her breast. “Thank you, Mrs. Rossen, but you grossly exaggerate my role. In truth, I could not have done this without your help,” she said earnestly, lifting her cup for another sip. “Without your direction, my eye witness would have been little more than gossip!” A girlish giggle burst from her lips. “I never imagined—” clearing her throat she reclaimed her composure, her hand coming to her breast as she blinked away her giddiness. “Forgive my excitement.”

Lifting her greying brows, the woman grinned. “Think nothing of it, my dear. You should be pleased with yourself. A little pride never hurt anyone. Besides, I am glad you took me into your confidence, Miss. Bishop. Rumors and gossip can be fickle things, but confessions…” her voice trailed off as she touched the napkin to her lips allowing her meaning to hang between them. Smoothing her hand along her plum colored gown, the satin glowing in the sunlit room, Alberta straightened, her smile turning curious. “Well, we both know the power they hold.”

Mariah nodded, her brows raising high in amusement. _Indeed I do._ Succumbing to the ambrosial smell of blueberry tart, her fingers carefully reached for the pastry. Closing her eyes at the delicious sweet, she could not help but smile at her fortune: _Richard Lefroy is mine for the taking._ His ludicrous engagement was blessedly over, and so long as her patience held firm, there was nothing to stand in her way. Taking another bite in an effort to stifle the capricious fluttering of her heart, Mariah grinned at her prospects. 

“It would be pertinent to discuss how to proceed,” Alberta said with a matter-of-fact tone, “wouldn’t you agree?” At Mariah’s gentle nod, the woman pressed on. “We must place you in the direct path of my nephew— remind him that better, more suitable matches are still available. With Miss. Williams permanently removed, I shouldn’t think it an issue. Given a little time, I am certain he will make the right choice.” 

Pursing her lips, Mariah pondered the statement for several long moments, her mind unable to concoct a single idea. “What would you suggest to draw his attention?” Her voice was sad and distant as her arctic eyes lifted to her companion. “My previous efforts have all been in vain. He only seems to want her.” Disdain weighed her words, as self-pity pulled her frown. It was an unattractive pout.

Jealousy did not suit her.

Nodding her understanding, Alberta grimaced before plastering an overtly bright, but entirely insincere smile. “Sarah Williams is no longer an option, and if my nephew had any sense— of which I am certain he does— he will see that the sooner he weds the better. A man can only remain a bachelor for so long.” Chuckling to herself, she continued gently; swallowing her tea once more, she sighed lightly. A giddiness welled within her lungs, filling them with a bubbling joy that was irrepressible and she reveled in its glory. 

Reputations had been lost and won over the many generations, her own daughters having painted the family tree black with their numerous indiscretions. For years she scoured the canvas of rumors, patching the frayed seams. Her fingers had bled from the countless pricking and blind mending, her shoulder had burned from the vigorous scrubbing as she tried to remove all trace of the thick black smear from the once-pristine ivory walls.

“Scandal must be avoided, at all costs. The girl’s arrest, as it were, was a rather public affair, whispers are circulating as we speak and must be silenced,” Alberta said, her finger lifting to punctuate her point, “Richard knows this and I am certain he will act accordingly. He _must.”_ Noting the uncertainty radiating from the girl in icy waves, Alberta sighed gently. “Fret not, Miss. Bishop, you will wed my nephew before the first blooms of spring— you have my word.”

Staring into the dark liquid, Mariah worried her lip. After everything she had done, how could he not see her as his wife? The mother of his children? Unlike the Williams, her family name was neither tarnished nor drowning in the marshes of poverty. Her father was known and respected, her mother, the paragon of propriety, was educated and accomplished— fluent in nine languages and four instruments! Her entire life had been dedicated to the task of womanhood, and the running of a household and eventually, ensuring her daughter did the same. Mariah knew what was expected of her, and what her lineage could capture. Her years of extensive tutelage would not be wasted on a lesser man with lesser fortune. 

_If he still doesn’t want you, what will you do then?_ Her heart crashed into the pit of her stomach, splashing bile into her throat, the rancorous thoughts burning like acid in her mind. Try as she might, she could never quite dispel the deprecating notion that she would never become the object of Richard Lefroy’s desire and remain illogically beneath the disgraced pauper. 

_NO! Jutting her chin,_ her nose rose in blatant hauteur. _He will want me! He will. Oh, yes! Richard Lefroy will beg for my hand in marriage. Sarah Williams is nothing now. Nothing._ Lifting her eyes, now tinged with maliced determination, Mariah asked with an even tone. “How long before she is released?” 

Bringing the tea to her self-assured smile, Alberta paused, looking across the edge of the cup, a mischievous twinkle sparkling in her grey eyes. Softly speaking the words more for herself than her co-conspirator, she grinned odiously. “Sarah Williams will never step foot outside those walls as long as she lives.”

**********

The muted chime of a bell pulled her from her fitful unconsciousness— she had not been _sleeping,_ rather trapped within the realm between exhaustion, wakefulness and rest. She never lingered long before crashing violently into the next, her mind too tired to remain awake and to burdened to sleep. During this time no one had spoken, save the errant word or two, but their movements had made as much noise as any voice, muffled as they were. Each sound had been heard under a heavy cloud, and thick fog, as though she had been listening underwater. The shuffling of feet, the creaking of doors, and the raving lunatics screeching in the greater distance, bounced against her ears in a smothered drumming, driving a nail through her skull.

With fearful determination, she forced her eyes to open, wincing at the stark light flooding her senses. The pain returned slithering across every inch of her person, as did the nausea, threatening to spill the last remaining bile of her empty stomach. Groaning loudly against the awful sensation, she begged— willed— her body to comply and her vision to clear. It did not, and she wretched on air, attempting to curl onto her side and cocoon in the comfort of her arms. But she could not turn, nor could her arms move from their raised position above her head. She was trapped— tethered to a table in the bowels of Hell, awaiting her fate. 

Whimpered panic wrapped icy claws around her neck, constricting her airway to a mere pinprick. The blood drained from her body; she could feel her skin turning ghostly-white as a tingling crawled in her limbs. Unable to focus, she tugged on her restraints once, twice, then again with as much force as she could manage, to no avail. 

A scream erupted from her throat, the maddened sound matching that of the other patients, as she strained against the shackles. Her shoulders burned from the awkward angle, the skin along her wrists bruised against the leather that had yet to move an inch— still she tried again. Then again, and again, and again. When her shoulders refused to lift from the table, and a faint trail of blood slipped from beneath the thick bands, she finally ceased her struggle. Weak and gasping, her vision blurred and stomach churned. Sarah lay waiting, her fingers tingling as numbness took hold.

The chime repeated itself, and after several moments, a door opened, and she felt, rather than saw, the entrance of another. Her lip trembled as she fought to maintain her composure and quell the overwhelming fear tainting the air with its pungent fetor. Too tired to sob, her tears dripped silently around her cheeks, the hot liquid streaking her face. Someone was speaking, but she could no more make out the words than she could remove herself from the table, and walk freely into the crisp sunlight.

The sound of her name drew her attention to the dark-blurred figure standing to the right of the slab. His voice was familiar, and yet completely foreign. He was muttering now, or perhaps that is how her ears perceived the quiet whispers. They were orders, she thought, for the others in the room. Pain split across her cheek, her lip cracking under the pressure before a hand snatched at her jaw pulling her attention the nun holding her hostage. “There you are,” she said with a kind, misplaced smile.

“Let us begin,” a man said, his voice was clear and certain. Foreboding clung to those three words like feathers to tar, the black, hot liquid hanging precariously above her. “The Devil has taken keen interest in you, Sarah Williams. Your weakness has put your soul in peril— your eternal salvation is in jeopardy. Having been seduced by the Devil and his silver tongue; you must be Cleansed and brought back into the arms of the Almighty God, lest you burn in the pits of Hell for your folly.” 

A splash of water against her face made her jump, gasping at the sudden invasion. She recognized him then: Father Elswick continued much louder than before. “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I command you— be clean!” Another sprinkling of water. “You have been stripped of your vanity and your worldly possessions that you might humble yourself before the Lord Thy God. You have been made to fast, to remember the temptation of Christ, who did not succumb to the enticements of Lucifer…”

The priest continued, as confusion ripped through her addled brain. A sharp pain drummed rhythmically behind her tears-soaked eyes, bleeding down her neck, into her spine. Tension waxed, scurrilous foreboding heating the damp air, matting wisps of curls against her sweating brow. Her breaths became frantic, the dark specks returning to her vision as she wrestled atop the table. Yelping, her limbs fought against the restraints, the shrill sound of her panic reverberated painfully against her ears.

The priest never faltered his speech.

Panic filled her, seizing her heart, begging her to run with breakneck speed anywhere her feet could carry her. Unencumbered by the bramble, loose stones, and thorns littering the path to freedom, she would spirit herself away. 

Sarah could almost taste the fresh air on her tongue, smell the dampness of the lakeside as birds whistled their merriment. He would be there— waiting— the wind tugging at his leucous hair. His cloak would be absent, his broad shoulders clad in the strange, umber-leather coat as he watched her with arched brow. A wondrous smirk would curve his thin, tempting lips as a crystal danced over his hands. He would open his arms to her as he had before, and she would take comfort in his embrace…

The fantasy shattered as another splash of water crashed against her face. Twitching wildly, the rampant stomping of her heart cracked sickeningly against her ribs. Crazed, her eyes flew wide, wild, her pupils pinpricks against the mossy irises. Instantly, her mind regretted leaving the daydream; the stark reminder of her reality splintered behind her eyes. The water came again as Father Elswick stood at her bedside, his arm lifted into the air as he continued his boisterous recitations, flicking the Holy Water one last time as punctuation. His narrowed eyes locked with hers as he finished the last of his sacred incantation. Reaching forward to wipe the sign of the cross against her brow, he whispered the accompanying Latin then straightened.

In the brief silence, he glanced over his shoulder to the elderly woman waiting near the fire, her face a stoic frown. He nodded once to the woman who turned abruptly to the fire to stoke the flames. She turned back to him them, clasping her hands before her in supplication, muttering a soft prayer, presumably for the girl stretched before her.

Taking a step forward, the priest frowned, and if it were possible, he grew more stern as he towered over her trembling frame. His fingers tightened around the a worn bible, and the leather tome groaned in protest as he pressed onward with the authority of a king. “You have fallen, Sarah Williams, corrupted by the seductive whispers of the Devil and his malevolence. You have allowed him residence in your heart, beguiled by the minions of shadow and malice. He has marked you, claimed you as his own, and the Lord thy God frowns upon you. If you seek forgiveness, and serve the Lord until thy flesh turns to dust you will join the host of Heaven and revel in the Glory of God.” His eyes closed as he spoke, a reverence overtaking his tone and for a moment the silence held promise and dare she think, hope. 

When his eyes opened again, they were once more consumed with an unmistakable darkness she had never witnessed before. It frightened her. “If you do not seek the path of righteousness, and turn forever away from the Grace of God, your will burn like a witch on a pyre.”

Sarah felt her lips twitch in protestation, trembling as she wept all the more, but no sound— no whimper slipped from her throat. Tossing wildly back and forth, her headache forgotten as she fought, growled, and tugged against her straps. Now was the time to run. 

“Rejoice, my child, for the Lord is merciful. He sees you, Sarah— knows your weaknesses, your shortcomings, your woes and sins. Redemption can be yours if you but open your heart and accept His Grace, spending your days in the service of your God, building up the Kingdom of Heaven.” A pious smile touched his lips as he moved to stand beside the woman. Sarah craned her neck painfully to keep him in her sights, her chin tucked against her clavicle.

Sister Agatha had a strong constitution, having worked far too many years under the roof of the Estate to remain otherwise. Admittedly unpleasant, the Cleansing was essential to the salvation of those within her care. So it was with great reluctance, and an even greater sense of duty that the aged woman retrieved a thick cloth from beneath her dark robes and wrapped her fingers around the thin, iron rod protruding from the blackened logs. 

Cautious, as not to harm herself or her superior, Agatha maneuvered the rod away from her person and into Elswick’s waiting palm. The man in turn lifted the glowing, orange-white end for inspection, the searing light reflecting in his eyes. The object was meant for stoking the fire, lacking the two sharp points needed for shifting the dying logs. Instead, the heat-brightened end was fashioned into a crude, homely cross. 

The moment of recognition lit like a beacon behind Sarah’s eyes, her face becoming ghostly pale as she fought anew within her bonds. An agonized howl erupted past her lips, the sound crashing against the stone walls. Fear raced across her skin, clutching at her heart, constricting the muscles in her stomach. “I-I am s-s-orry! Please! No! No!” She found her voice then, pleading uncontrollably for mercy through a shattering mess of tears and hiccups. “Please— _please!”_

Wrinkling his brow in mocked contrition, the priest clicked his tongue as though she were a child. “The wicked must be punished, for without punishment, how can we learn?” He paused to let the import of his words catch within her mind. “The Lord and Savior Jesus Christ suffered upon the cross at Calvary for you. His blood spilled in your name so that you might be forgiven your trespasses. You have forgotten this great and wonderful sacrifice, and the pains He was made to bear for your salvation. Forget no more.” 

Nodding to Agatha, he took a single step back, cocking his head contemplatively. The woman’s hands reached out, clamping hard upon her newly bandaged toes with enough pressure to impede any movement. Sarah howled as fresh blood seeped through the white linen. Grinding her teeth, Sarah threshed against her assailant, but the grip remained firm and the shackles tight, making her movement impossible.

Father Elswick studied the sole of her foot as though it were a Da Vinci masterpiece, his littlest finger tracing along her arch, painting an invisible image against her flesh. At his touch, her desperate wailing became in indecipherable mess of sounds. “I wish you were here! I WISH YOU WERE HERE, NOW!” If the priest understood her, he gave no indication, his gaze fixed hungrily on the spot he had drawn. “I WISH YOU WERE HERE, NOW!” _He will come for me! He will co—_

The sound of her flesh bubbling assaulted her ears before the agonizing pain seized her frame. Every nerve, every muscle drew bowstring-taut as her teeth clenched with shattering force.The foul tang of sick flooded her mouth, as black scraped the edges of her vision. She gasped sharply as the darkness slowly consumed her, quaking with blinding force as the brand was pulled away from her red-charred foot. The smell of her cooked skin forced her to retch over and over.

_Please come! Please! **You promised! You pr—** _The last threads of her consciousness fled, ushering the blessed reprieve of oblivion. Images of the Goblin King pulled her farther beneath the waters of sweet emptiness, memories of his promises tangling into an inaccurate mess of words.

_“A beast would not chafe knowing that when you leave him, you are being pawed at and wounded, and he can do nothing to stop it.”_

_“If I had wished for you—” her breath caught, her eyes shut painfully tight, “w-would you have stopped them?”_

_“Yes.” The answer had come with no hesitation, His voice strong and sure. “ A beast would not plot your revenge, nor wish death upon your attackers.”_

_“If I wished—”_

_“Yes.”_

She welcomed the void with open arms, knowing he would come. She allowed her mind to drift into nothingness, her thoughts dissipating on the winds of sleep. He will come. He promised. She assured herself, the thought taking far more energy than it ought. He will— A new memory took hold suddenly, bringing her back to the slab and pain. The cavern behind her breastbone grew into a gaping maw of guilt. Her right words had fallen on deaf ears. 

The Goblin King would not come.

The Goblin King was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know this was dark… but in my defense, what did you think happened to lunatics in the 1700s? Is anyone surprised that Alberta and Mariah were the ones responsible for Sarah’s incarceration? The next chapter is almost done BTW, so the wait shall not be too terribly long! I love you all! Please, oh please review. I get a ridiculous, goofy smile on my face every time! XOXO!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Stick with me! I promise there is a plan here! I love you all and cannot wait to hear what you all think! XOXO!

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**__________________________________________________________**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

_Mismatched eyes search the sea of dancers._  
The girl slips away.  
The mirror shatters. 

The debate was weeks old, having already occurred six times prior with no noticeable changes or deviations. In fact, it was becoming a ritual of sorts, a bi-weekly meeting of grief and disappointment, where small pleasantries were first exchanged then forgotten under the crushing waves of vociferous pleading. Phrases were modified and revised: never quite the same, but unchanging nonetheless. Their meaning was a sedulous request that was neither unreasonable or impossible, but nor was it so simple as the turn of a key.

Sitting behind her polished and well-worn desk, fingers intertwined tightly in her lap, Agatha Wesson studiously kept her own counsel, her lips pressed in a firm line. It was a heady task, made harder still by the need to maintain stoicism, as her features twitched in agitation. For once again, seated with pained, ashen faces, were Blythe and Constance Tillens, whose very presence radiated distress. The woman, almost too pregnant to be free of confinement, was worriedly caressing her rounded belly as her teeth chewed her lip—whilst her husband, whose countenance had seen better days, pressed onward in his beseeching for Miss. Sarah Williams’ release. Most surprisingly, however, standing back from the rambling, expectant father, was Richard Lefroy, a man she had not expected with each passing conference. His dark eyes burned with a murderous fire—the same expression he wore week after week after week as he remained statuesque. He seemed contented to observe the room in severe silence, presumably allowing the couple to speak on his behalf. 

And speak they did. 

With each visit, their pleadings turned more and more into the vapid begging of vagabonds and dregs. Over and over the questions were asked, demands made, and money proffered, only to be rejected time and time again. 

It had been a refreshing surprise to both Agatha and the three guests in her office to learn the girl would not be released with a heavy purse and a blind eye. Most knew full well the power of wealth in places such as this, and Mr. Lefroy was certainly no pauper. Yet Sarah Williams remained. It was a small victory, but Agatha was no less pleased, having witnessed the discharging of patients in dire need because gratuitous donations were of far greater import. Madness and corruption were a disease, a plague wherein those most troubled were the lawmakers. Over the years, wealth, influence, and a modicum of discretion had become the basis for release.

The reverse was also true.

Frowning away such auspicious thoughts, the abbess looked to the crestfallen crowd pent in the small confides of her office. Having grown tired of the repetitive conversation, and rather weary of watching the already dejected faces fall further still at her somber answer, Agatha sighed heavily, pursing her lips against a groan.

She hated these visits.

“Please, let us see her.” Constance pled, her eyes sodden as her lips trembled further. Her hand came to cover her mouth as unbidden sobs wracked her frame. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and the usual rosy tint to her cheeks had vanished as night after night her dreams were tormented with insidious images and violent screams. Burdened by the unknown, her mind painted the detestable, hellacious ongoings of the Estate, attempting to visualize the gruesome suffering Sarah was being made to endure. How much had she suffered? What would she suffer still? Worsening with each refusal, the continued nightmares only increased, bringing her worry to unbearable heights and her health to dangerous lows. “Please. I only w—want— I— I need to see that she is well. Please, show some compassion!”

“I am afraid you know my answer.” Shaking her head morosely, the nun stood, moving around to stand before the weeping mother. Her own eyes reflected a deep well of pity as her lips dropped into a stern frown, a practiced expression she had adapted over the years. “I _am_ sorry, Mrs. Tillens.” Lifting her eyes, her gaze locked with Mr. Lefroy, her teeth clenching, “As I have said before, visitors are _strictly_ prohibited until treatment has progressed. The precise day is solely dependent upon Miss. Williams. If she is willing to be healed and opens her heart to the love of our Savior, Jesus Christ, it will be swift and painless. The decision is hers alone.” Clearing her throat of the acerbic tone, she offered a pinched, wan smile, spreading her hands before her. “My hands are tied.”

Richard Lefroy stood took a predatory step forward, his brow heavily furrowed. “My wi—fiancé,” he corrected, his lips pursed, “is not mad. She does not belong in this godforsaken place! I demand you release her!”

“Your fiancé is unwell, otherwise she would not be here!” she shouted back, galled. “From what I garnered, she is here by her own admission. I understand how upsetting this is, Mr. Lefroy, and you have my deepest sympathies—truly you do—but I will not stand here and be browbeaten!” Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed and cutting as her voice lost all traces of compassion. “Should Miss. Williams progress and become once again fit for company, you will be the first to know. Until then however, my answer remains.” She stared pointedly at Lefroy. “If you are unsatisfied, I suggest you speak with Doctor Elswick—”

“He has been neither helpful nor forthcoming.” Richard spat.

Raising her brows, her jaw clenched as she silently prayed for patience. It would seem she _had_ tired of their much-too-frequent visits. The welcome had worn thin. “Ask again, as you seem so fond of doing.” She all but groaned, clearing her throat to hide her growing distemper. “It is unfortunate, Mr. Lefroy, but I am certain the doctor has his reasons. I have not the power, nor desire to release an ailing patient. The doctor will make his decision, not I.”

“Reasons?” Blythe scoffed, incredulously, a heated vapor coating his tone, his hand lifting to knife the air as glowered. “Please enlighten me on the reasons Miss. Williams is forbidden visitations? Why her release cannot be negotiated— “

“Mr. Tillens, please understand, her treatment is essential to her—”

“Even the Bastille allows vis—”

“Treatment is essential to her progression. I—”

“This is ridiculous! I will take this matter to the House of Lords!”

“MR. TILLENS, _ENOUGH!”_ The unbridled rancor fisted her hands at her sides as her brow creased painfully. “Week after week my answer is unchanged, and yet here you are, again, demanding a release that I cannot grant. The situation is onerous and regrettably unchangeable, and for that I once again extend my sympathies. However, I cannot condone another of our summits if this is to be the outcome.” Sighing angrily as though it took the greatest effort to push the air through her lips, Agatha frowned. “So it is with this in mind that I tell you this is to be our last meeting until further notice.” Raising her hand to silence the onslaught of displeasure, she added firmly, “You will receive word as Miss. Williams’ treatment progresses; until then you will refrain from returning here. Our business is finished.”

“No— _please,”_ Constance began, but the other woman spoke over her defeated pleadings. 

“Now,” Agatha said, clasping her hands before her. “I must take my leave. Someone will show you out shortly.” With a curt nod, she looked over her shoulder. “Good day, and God be with you.” She swept from the disparaging room without another word, the heavy door slamming behind her.

Releasing the breath that had been trapped in her lungs since first arriving, Constance did not bother stifling her sobs. Her small shoulders shook from the force of her sorrow. “W-what do we do now?” she stammered, looking to her husband for guidance as she had countless times before. He was steady and sure, even in the worst of storms as they threatened to turn the foundation to damp rubble. However troubling, sad, or dismal the future appeared to be, he was the voice of reason, able to see through the mist to the clarifying rays of dawn. He was her rock. Her anchor. 

Yet, as she looked into those familiar dark depths for an answer, frost crept over her skin, sinking deep into her bones. She shivered. Where the usual confidence should have been was something far worse than uncertainty: hopelessness. Her heart fell painfully into her stomach, the cavernous space behind her sternum aching from the sudden loss. Nausea threatened as a wave of despair paralyzed her senses, the utter numbness drying the last of her salty tears.

“This is your fault,” Richard said dejectedly. His gaze was fixated on the floor as his brow wrinkled further. He lifted his eyes to lock contemptuously with Blythe “You damned her to this place.” 

“ME?!”

“It certainly wasn’t her!” His head jerked violently towards Constance. “You bloody fool! You ruined everything!” He thrust a hand through his dark hair, uncaring how mussed the action left it. “You catechized her within the presence of not only a priest, but the Estate physician as well! What choice did they have but to drag her away?” He stalked forward, towering over the still-sitting man, who gaped, but otherwise remained silent. “I was there that night at the lake, and Sarah was most assuredly _alone._ Whomever condemned her with such vulgar, licentious falsehoods had not accounted for my presence and my ability to corroborate her tale. But you—” he spat, pointing a finger before curling his hand into a fist and pressing it against his sneer.

“You dare to condemn me?” Blythe shot to his feet, the chair toppling behind him, his own finger lifting to jab painfully against the other man’s chest, punctuating his lividity. “What of you, Lefroy? _After all I have done… this is how you repay me,_ that’s what you said. You turned your back on her the moment you sensed her guilt! She matters naught to you! At least have the decency to admit it!” Snatching a great breath before charging onward in his tirade, Blythe glared daggers at the other man. “I can admit my failure—can you?” 

“Why do you think am I here, for the pleasure of your company?” Richard scoffed to himself, “Hardly.” Pulling at the cuff of his coat, his shoulders straightened, his neck rolling to relieve the tension in his muscles. “I cannot play innocent, nor can I be denied my share of blame however small it might be. Miss. Williams and I have an arrangement that she was neither forced nor beaten to accept. You would do well to remember her choice.” A self-satisfied smirk pulled his lips, his nostril twitched as he stared, his temper simmering. “Arguing will do nothing—”

“What _can_ we do that we have not done?”

“We find the persons resp—” Richard began.

“We have tried. We will never find them, Lefroy.” Blythe cut over him, his voice a gravel. “Whomever is to blame for this horrendous quagmire is of little consequence—Sarah is trapped within this miserable pit and our efforts are failing!”

“I am aware of—”

“What are you aware of? Her suffering? Her humiliation?”

Stepping forward, Lefroy growled. “I know of her suffering!”

“THEN DO SOMETHING!” He turned, slamming his fist into the wall, his knuckles tearing upon impact leaving a red stamp behind. “You have done nothing to help her! Use your wealth—your influence—and SAVE HER!”

Richard charged, his fingers digging into heavy wool of Blythe’s frock, nearly lifting the man from his feet. He surged, ramming the man against the wall against his own imprint of blood, as he snarled, the guttural sound inhuman with its foreignness. “How? How am I to save her?” He leaned closer to the trapped man, his voice falling lower. _“You_ condemned her. You are the reason she rots behind these walls.” His hands suddenly fell away and he stepped back, picking at an arrant strand of lint on his sleeve, “I _will_ save her, Tillens, and when she is free, you can grovel at her feet.” A glowering smirk pulled his lips before he turned, putting the barest distance between them in the small room.

“Stop!”

Between her tears and sniffling, Constance hissed at the bickering pair. “For God’s sake, please, stop! You stand there bickering like children while Sarah is locked away suffering God knows what!” She was standing now, her arms crossed firmly against her chest, her body trembled like the last leave in a storm, clinging desperately to the branch. 

She stared wildly at them, plum circles much too prevalent sat beneath her bloodshot eyes, and not for the first time, Blythe felt a needling of worry. Upon her shoulders sat the beast of worry, for both Sarah and the unborn child stretching her once-flat stomach. Night after night she lay awake, haunted by dreams of death and blood. Her impressive imagination could conjure the most amazing spectacle filled with light and joy, but just as easily came pain and suffering. Her empathy knew no bounds, which was both a blessing and a curse. For every moment of pure, incandescent love came the screaming shadows of woe and grief as her mind tried to sympathize and envision the trauma of another kindred spirit.

As long as Sarah suffered, so did his wife.

“We cannot leave her here!” She dragged in a loud, jagged breath to quell her weeping. “What do we do?” Pressing a hand into the juncture beneath her belly and hip, she rubbed at the nagging ache that so often came with stress, wincing as the muscles tried to relax.

The sight of his distraught wife shaking in her grief eased the rage pulsing beneath his chest. Moving to grasp her shoulders with delicate care, he guided her to the chair once more, placing a comforting kiss upon her brow. Looking directly into her eyes, he said with great avidity, “I will fix this. I promise you.” Looking to the other man, he stood, offering a curt nod to serve as the barest indication their quarrel was settled—if only for a moment. Pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the horrendous pressure building behind his eyes, he groused. “I do not understand how this happened. Sarah is not mad, but this—” he gestured to the room, indicating the asylum and all locked therein. “This is madness! How could she sentence hers—”

“She met with a phantom?” Richard cut in, the question was quiet and sudden, almost a statement in its utterance. Now he was pacing the small space at the back of the office, the soft scuffling of his shoes on the wood brushed against the air. “He wasn’t real, she said. An accident, by her own admission. How? Why would she say such nonsense?” 

Constance remained motionless. Her muscles locked in paralyzed disquiet, her spine far too rigid to be comfortable. Reddened, downcast eyes stared unseeing into her lap, the faintest tremor sliding along her spine. It was a curious response, one that had not gone unnoticed by Richard, who watched her with predatory precision.

Blythe had not reacted at all.

A dark curiosity flooded Richard’s pupils as his eyes lifted to fully assess her. Striding forward with determined purpose, he fell to his knees, his hands gripping the arms of the chair with creaking force. “What do you know?” he demanded, sedulously. His voice was neither cruel nor curt, but desperately curious.

Startled by his sudden closeness, Constance gasped, pushing herself further into the back of her seat. The desultory exchange threatened to overwhelm her senses as her mouth fell agape—what answer could she give? The wrong words spoken to the right person were damning, their reasons for entering the asylum were proof enough of that.

Honesty had consequences.

Molasses clogged the air, sticky and dark, clinging to the silence with slow determination. Their thoughts turned inward and reflective, each lost to the memories of the girl wrongly locked away with a few misplaced words, suffering within the bowels of the asylum.

Three weeks of the same recycled answers. Three weeks of lies. Three weeks without knowing what was happening to the girl locked somewhere within the dank stone walls. What unimaginable horrors had she endured? Had she been beaten? It was common practice within even the most austere of madhouses. The Estate was no exception. For years, rumors had circulated about the heinous practices and unforgivable experiments orchestrated under the guise of healing and salvation: monstrous tales wrought with all manner of pain and suffering, laced with more truth than any dared to believe. Whippings were certain, any asylum would readily attest to that fact; men are far more compliant with blood painting their back. Even food was used as a weapon, a means to garner greater power over the helpless with the promise of more or the threat of less. 

If they could not release her, death would be the only reprieve.

Blythe cast a sidelong glance at his wife, whose tears had stopped, but her face remained twisted in heartbreak. Pulsing behind his eyes, the drumming ache that had taken up residence within his brain morphed once again into nausea. Churning deep in his gut, the bile rose and tickled along his throat as Blythe ground his teeth painfully to suffocate the unwanted sensation. Leaning forward, feeling the heavy weight of defeat press firm against his spine, he sat, dropping his head into his calloused, ink marred hands.

“You know something—don’t you?” Richard asked with sharp clarity, his face alight with the thought. Piqued by this newfound revelation, both his curiosity and umbrage roared to life each demanding his undivided attention. 

Unable to look into the dark, questioning pools pleading for her prudent silence to break, Constance swallowed the painful lump of unease waiting at the back of her throat. Frowning deeply, her lips trembled, as her head shook in remonstrance. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Richard leaned forward, his hands leaving the armrests to grasp her own sharply. “Mrs. Tillens— Constance—please.” Squeezing her hand beneath the smooth, warm flesh of his own, his head dropped. The hard plane of his forehead rested atop the pile of hands as he loosed a discontented sigh, borne of hubris frustration. “Tell me.” 

Blinking rapidly, her uncertainty palpable, Constance remained silent, gaping back, stalemated in indecision. Bearing the secrets to both her husband and Mr. Lefroy came at a high price with unknown consequences. What could that knowledge do but further lambaste the incarcerated girl. Looking down at her lap and Lefroy’s bowed head, her teeth pulled and chewed at her lips once again. Her apprehension crept along the column of her spine as Richard lifted his head to lock his gaze with hers. 

His features were wrinkled in discontent, moving her heart to stir and her tongue to succumb. “It began as nightmares—dreams of mismatched eyes and shattered glass.” Swallowing hard, she ignored the foreboding clawing at her nerves, pulling the fine hairs at the nape of her neck to attention. A silent warning slithered along her nerves, a gentle, stoic whispering voice that bespoke of silence and secrecy. Silence would not change the minds of the Elswick brothers, nor could it unlock the gates and usher Sarah through to freedom. 

“They are dreams, nothing more.” Blythe frowned, his head hardly lifting from his hands, his eye incredulous. 

Dissatisfied with his words, Constance pouted. “Yes, they were dreams,” she said, with no small amount of annoyance. She turned her eyes sharply from her husband to Richard, who stared back at her with blatant confusion. “That is how they started, you see. Phantom imaginings that Sarah knew were false: dreams of crystals, owls, and labyrinthine stairs.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Tillens, but—” he said, straightening from his perch before her, still on his knees. “I do not understand what these dreams have to do with Sarah.”

Pressing onward, the strange foreboding still ever present in her mind, Constance added to the seemingly nonsensical explanation. “For months her sleep was haunted by strange ballrooms and masked parties and lingering glances. No dream was ever the same, but neither was truly different from the last. She never believed him to be real—”

“Who?”

Startled, her words failed, as though she had forgotten she was speaking—and to whom. Affronted, Constance answered prosaically, her tone laced with gadfly. “The man with mismatched eyes.” She spoke as though he should have known the answer, as if it were as plain as the nose on her face. “He was the man she once she dreamt of, night after night. His strange visage pressed against her psyche—all this she confided in me, and I dared not judge nor presume anything from such fantasy. After all, what harm ever came from a dream?” Her breathless laugh shocked even herself as she pondered those thoughtless words. 

Blythe rose then, his tired eyes settled on her form. “Her dreams were nonsense, much the same as yours or mine.” Scrubbing a hand across his face, he sighed morosely. “Her imagination got the better of her—that is all.”

Daggers that would kill a lesser man shot through her gaze before cooling and settling upon Mr. Lefroy. Proceeding as though she had neither been interrupted nor pushed for silence, she spoke softer. “It was and accident—she never thought…” Her eyes were suddenly serious, the thought lost on her tongue as her frown deepened. Whispering to herself or the man anxiously kneeling inches from her, she stared into the pattern of her skirts, the delicate pattern somehow fascinating. Distractedly, she spoke. “She made a wish and there he was.”

“The man with mismatched eyes?”

Her eyes flashed. “I know it sounds impossible—perhaps it is—call me foolish, but I believe her. However it started, I believe that she saw a man at the lakeside—whether by wish or by other means, it matters not. Sarah is no liar, nor is she mad.” 

Pulling himself away from her with a violence that had her recoiling from the shock of it, Lefroy stood with wrinkled brow. His voice was quiet, the words swollen with anger. “So it is true?” His eyes slid to Blythe who was gaping at his wife in a mixture of horror and rage, his nostrils twitching. “There was a man at the lake.” It was a statement, bitter and cold. 

Slow as drying dew, the color seeped from her face, as Constance searched for a way to explain when the right words would not come. 

“How long?” When her words failed again, his grew louder. “How long?!”

“Lefroy!” Blythe shouted, leaping to his feet.

Turning wildly on the other man, his teeth bared. “Did you know? Did you know Sarah was meeting men at the lake?!” 

“Of course not!”

“But she knew!” His hand jabbed at Constance.

“I didn’t!” She barked. “Not until it was done, I swear. Even so, Sarah remained faith—” her eyes closed, her hand flying to the lower crest of her belly as she winced. An invisible knife pierced her flesh, driving deep into her womb, the pain of it brought fresh tears to her eyes. 

“Another deceit? Am I—” He stopped, his head cocking curiously to the side, watching the woman writhe uncomfortably in the creaking wooden chair.

She gasped again.

“Mrs. Tillens?”

Crying out as another stab jabbed her further, her teeth grit with breaking force, the tears steady now as they rolled down her cheeks. “B-Blythe,” she tried, gasping for breath, “the bab—” Leaning forward, nearly toppling out of the chair, her agonized cry bounced off the walls, and both men knelt at her sides.

“Constance?” Blythe asked helplessly, his eyes reflecting the fear dripping from her own. He slid his hand beneath hers, allowing the fierce grip to soothe them both, his other hand stroking along her back. Looking to Richard, he growled, “Get someone!”

Rushing to the door as if the Hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels, nearly tearing it from its hinges, he barged through into the waiting asylum. “Help! We need help!” The mild-tempered patients in the hall jumped at his hollering, scurrying farther away from the noise. Others were rilled by the sound, taking leave to begin their own wailing and shrieks, the sound threatening to shatter the highest windows.

Moving farther from the room where Constance ululated and wept, Richard called again. “Help! Damn you! We need help!” The galling opprobrium stirred his choler as he pressed through the growing crowd. “HELP! HELP!” His voice was no match for the operose cries of the madhouse.

The wailing of the halls rang in the small office, adding wood to the fires of her pain. Having slipped from the chair to the floor, she knelt on all fours, desperate to relieve the searing pain in her womb. Still rubbing comforting stokes along her spine, Blythe knelt helpless beside her, unable to ease her burden nor calm her sobs. “B-Blythe,” she whimpered, as the pain ebbed the slightest fraction, “it’s to-too early! The babe ca-can’t come, not now!”

A black mass pushed through the small but frantic crowd, halting at the sight of Richard Lefroy. “Damn you, woman! She needs help!” he roared, despite her proximity, pointing a finger into the office. “HELP HER!” Snatching her arm, he dragged the young woman into the room, thrusting forward.

The nun gasped, taking the sights and sounds of the room, the panic latching to her legs, preventing her from taking another step. As the kneeling woman hollered a groan, Edith Milburn straightened, the haze of confusion lifting as she moved to take her own place on the floor. “What happened?” she asked, her eyes focused on Constance, but her words were meant for Blythe who answered as quickly as his tongue would allow. Nodding her understanding, Edith instructed the men to look elsewhere as she lifted the mass of skirts for inspection.

Her eyes moved to Blythe, who had broken from her command to cast a heartbroken, fearful glance at his wife, who seemed unaware of the blood soaking her gown between her fervent groans and cries of agony. A moment later, she caught his desperate eyes and their silent plea for help and guidance, and a sheen of tears glimmered in the light before he could blink them away. He urged her to continue with a firm nod as he held his breath. The resounding thump of his heart drummed in his ears, and he sank under a great wave terror. He watched as the nun moved her lips; if she had spoken, he could not hear for his breath pushed forth in a great heaving as his heart crashed into the hollow pit of his stomach. 

He saw blood.

Beneath linen and petticoat, spreading raggedly between pale, firm thighs, was a sea of red. Painted over its canvas with careless brush strokes, the blood pooled in a little puddle between her knees, soaking the fabric trapped there. Edith felt the breath of fear sigh at her neck, the fine hairs reaching to touch the raw emotion hanging in the air. Moving to assess, with as delicate a touch as the situation could have allowed, the young sister reached her hand, probing gently at first. Her fingers unsure, she tried again with more confidence, only to snatch it away an instant later, gasping. 

“The babe is breech.”


	23. Chapter 23

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

_Thirty two…thirty four…_  
Thirty seven…thirty nine…  
Forty… 

There was night and there was day. 

There were no clocks, no metronome of hands ticking away amid the cries and wailings of the condemned— only shadows. Creeping and stretching along the floors, conquering the corners, and taking residence in the shallow nooks of the halls. The ever-shifting darkness served as a fickle sundial to those who cared to measure their unusual movements. Time was a nuisance, an overabundance of minutes and hours passing aimlessly, sifting through desperate fingers like water from a stream. Those trapped within the Estate could not possess nor calculate it with any sort of accuracy but were made to bear the intermittent intervals that were at one moment eternal, and the next fleeting. Time was a villain, an enemy from which there was no escape. Given enough, the most level and sane of minds would shatter.

The Estate knew precisely how to capitalize on such an adversary. 

Little more than a month had passed, or so Sarah had been told. Her treatments, as they were often called, snatched away any proper accounting of her days in Hell, leaving a rough estimation of pained wakefulness and agonized sleep. Whilst routine and discipline were preached exhaustingly each Sabbath; scolding the congregations for their idleness and demanding each to make better use of their time, the Estate seemed determined to ignore such counsel. Had there been the barest hint of structure, the claws of madness could not sink so deeply— so swiftly— into the mind, as a hot blade slicing through butter. Far worse however, than the inaccuracy of her incarceration were the cruel, sluggish hours sitting amid the chaos of lunacy, where nothing stood between herself and the others. 

The lunatics.

They were cruel. Loud. A few by nature, others by medical design. They would poke at her when she passed by, laugh at nothing and everything, grab at her, sometimes capturing fistfuls of her nightgown with near-tearing force. She had been dragged to the floor by a delusional, too-large woman who, believing herself a mutt, proceeded to slide her fat tongue across her cheeks and brow as a dog would its beloved owner. Two guards were needed to pry them apart. Another woman, whose name Sarah had not learned, made a game of snatching her fingers and dragging them into her toothless mouth like a suckling babe. 

Toying with the fraying edges of her sanity with long, spider leg fingers, madness begged her to submit to its depravity, whispering darkly in the night through the veil of her dreams. It would be too easy to give in, to fall into the void that beckoned, but she refused to succumb. He was real, and she was not mad. That knowledge propelled her from one day into the next, solidifying her feet against the torrential, shifting path. Her skin remembered the effervescent feel of his fingers tracing along her jaw, the warmth of his gloved hand holding hers, the weight of his lips pressing insistent against her own, and the deep timbre of his voice. 

The impossible man had been real— not so very long ago.

She was never gifted with an accurate accounting of her days spent below in the dank cellar where the dark was thick as smoke and the air too close to breathe. In that bantam stall where she lay curled against the cold, her mind falling in and out of consciousness as rats feasted on her flesh, Sarah could do little to count the passing hours. Even her injuries were unreliable; whilst her toes had ceased to bleed, now covered in thick dark scabs ringed with purple-brown bruises, the cross, stretching along the length of her foot, was still much too tender. Her every step was a wretched limp, filled with acute aching as she hobbled her way through her prison.

It was a pain Sarah had become familiar with, and in the deepest crevice of thought, hidden behind a locked door, was the faintest flicker of gratitude. True, her feet were not the singular source of her anguish, her body was littered with bruises and welts hidden beneath the course, heavy linen of her uniformed bedgown. The incessant scratching of fibers against her frosted skin, the persistent ache accompanying every stretch, the throbbing that had yet to leave her skull all culminated as an anchor to the shores of her sanity; even as the whispers of hysteria threatened in the dark still moments before sleep. Before the nightmares consumed her once again.

_The Goblin King is dead._

_You murdered him._

_Murderer._

The image of her sin, of that night— of him— was always waiting, lingering in the quiet, stalking her as a beast to its prey. Her dreams of the mismatched eyes and their mercurial owner were once enticing, dripping with temptation, luring her ever nearer until the tension became too strong and she woke breathless. Though few in number, the weight of them bore down on her, slipping into her life, captivating her in the waking hours and eventually begging her to make her first wish.

Like the Goblin King, those dreams were gone now, replaced with horrific memories of her heinous crime— however accidental. Spellbound, she lay trapped in the clutches of remembrance and slumber, with no escape. However fast she ran, however loud she cried for aid, she could not free herself from the painful claw of her nightmares. Trapped within a harrowing labyrinth, she ran until stitches ripped in her side, desperate to find the Goblin King before it was too late. She was always too late. Deeper and deeper into the maze she went, faster and faster she sank into despair like a heavy rock under the crashing waves of a torrential storm, swallowing her into its gaping maw. A wish could not raise the dead.

Yet, beyond hope, Sarah wished. 

One wish. One wish made in the final seconds before sleep or pain could claim her. A single wish made after the aged nose of a nun wrinkled in distaste as she locked the heavy oak door ensconcing Sarah in near pitch darkness. Curled atop the stained and knobby mattress that smelt of stale, crushed straw, the boulder-lumps digging deep into her muscles, her body aching, battered and bloodied in the name of medicine, Sarah cried out for the impossible man, whose name she did not know. Weeping into the night, she said her right words only once before succumbing to her fatigue or the generous dose of laudanum, where her mind proceeded with its torture.

She had borne witness to his agonized whimpers and mewling groans as his body became crooked and bloody. The maddening sound of his bones shifting beneath tearing flesh reechoed in her mind with unparalleled accuracy whenever silence engulfed her. His crimson blood stained every surface of her dream-scape, matting his pristine feathers, crashing against the pebbled shore to mingle with the lapping water. Her own hands were slick, the stain burned deep into her flesh never to wash clean.

Sarah hated dreaming. 

She hated remembering far more.

Blinking away the tears that were always at the ready whenever her thoughts strayed to the now dead man, Sarah fought to remain present. _Do not think of him! Not here, not now! You must repent!_ Dragging herself, with herculean effort from her thoughts, Sarah tried to focus on her enforced prayers, the phrases slipping past her lips in a monotonous recitation. 

“Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, as it was, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.” It was hollow sounding, dry and insincere as her eyes wandered about the beautiful chapel, glancing to the high-arching ceilings before sliding down the plastered walls where an over-sized Christ hung upon his cross, his blank eyes boring into the room.

She glanced away quickly.

A lone sunbeam broke through the thick, English fog, spearing the frosted stained glass windows with prideful determination. Sarah watched as one beam became three, then four, their lines crisp against the cold, brumal air. The beautiful streams of light cast a myriad of colors across the stone floor where she knelt in prescribed supplication. It was a beautiful distraction that she welcomed with open arms, her hand opened of its own accord to balance the emerald ray of light in her palm. Slowly, her fingers closed as though she might capture the light and its tiny breath of warmth.

That small, brilliant radiance draped a weighted quilt of much-needed comfort across her shoulders. Even if it could do nothing to warm her trembling, spindly frame, the unexpected luster was a balm to her senses. Closing her eyes, red and weary from her troubles, her chapped and pallid lips hinted a smile as her chin lifted ever so much to the Heavens. She was weightless, floating on a cloud of peace as the burdens and horrors of her days faded with that single touch of light.

A visceral crack rebounded against the silent stone forcing Sarah to cry out. Her hand recoiled to her breast, as white pain rippled against the back of her thighs. Heat burst across her flesh radiating through her muscles before she toppled forward onto all fours. Her fists clenched, as she hissed, her legs trembling beneath her.

“Finish your prayers!” barked the elderly sister, who leant heavily upon an old, twisted cane. Her yellowed teeth gritted as she snarled down at Sarah before shifting her weight to brandish the weapon once more. “Get up and finish your prayers.” The woman growled, striking Sarah’s back with far greater force than expected from one so aged. “Your prayers, girl!”

Whimpering, Sarah pushed upward, settling her weight tentatively against her heels in a small effort to hide her flesh from the bite of the cane. The pain hummed, throbbing as she knelt upon the course, grooved floor. 

_You must repent-- cleanse your soul._ Clasping her hands, the rosary hanging between her wrists, Sarah’s lips resumed their fervent movement, the light breaths puffing against her interlocked fingers as she proceeded.

“Voice your prayers, you impious girl!” The cane smarted against her shoulders and Sarah yelped, rocking atop her knees. “The Lord will not hearken to the silent prayers of a sinner! You must voice your repentance with purpose and choler!” The cane smarted again. “Do you not wish to be healed? Do you not wish your soul to be saved?” The woman tightened her grip upon her weapon, her knuckles creaking with age and the sheer force of her hold. Pursing her lips, the heavy wrinkles deepened as her eyes poured unbridled, molten abhorrence upon the cowering girl. 

Sarah stuttered, earnestly pushing the words from her trembling lips, but the sound remained much too quiet. The tangible hatred of the weathered sister hung like a shroud, bearing down upon her rounded shoulders, trailing behind her, black as tar. It was a curious thing, her gross ire for the Williams girl, having no notable genesis, her arcane loathing dominated their every interaction. Whatever her perceived grievances, each encounter in the small chapel.

“Ungrateful and selfish little wretch!” The woman’s nostrils flared and she swallowed her distaste audibly. “If the Savior could suffer for your sake, the very least you can do if offer him your fervent attention.” Another crack of the cane. “Finish. Your. Prayers.” Each word punctuated with a vicious rap and braying cry. 

Over and over, blow upon blow cracked against tender flesh until Sarah screamed, the piercing sound vibrating against her with shattering force. Having lost the will to kneel after the second strike, Sarah lay contorted, with her arms crossed firmly to shield her head, and her knees tucked under, against her chest. 

Breathless, she surveyed the girl with crazed disdain, her own eyes wild and black with rage. The pathetic form of the huddled, whimpering girl, cracked the glass façade of her religious zeal. Her arm lowered, the rigid knot of her posture did not unravel, but loosened as she leant against her staff, a faraway look pinching her brow. 

Blinking furiously, her eyes darted about the room. Though she had done no harm, nor committed any sort of crime, she could not help but feel quite the opposite. Blushing, she cleared her throat, her hand rose to caress the heavy cross hanging about her neck. “Well,” she huffed, her voice far away. “You will pay for your hubris.” Glancing to the hollow-eyes of Christ, her chest puffed in righteous umbrage, the barest of nods tipped her head. Basking in the gentle reverence of the chapel, her irascible opprobrium nearly forgotten, she offered a silent prayer.

“Kneel, you ungrateful child.” Making the sign of the cross, her full, spider-wrinkled lips turned upwards as a scowl weighed her brow. Locking her gaze on the girl as she struggled to peel her body off the floor, the darkly dressed nun clenched her fist around the crucifix, the sharp edges dug against her palm. “Your soul cannot be saved if you are not fervent in your prayers and earnest in your pleadings with the Lord. You have forgotten the sacredness of communing with your Father in Heaven, and your soul has suffered greatly.”

Sarah did not look to her, having risen to her knees once more, the rosary still entangled about her hand, her reddened eyes stared unseeing at the crown of thorns adorning the Savior’s head. A prickled, murmuring hummed along the expanse of her undoubtedly bruised back, and she wondered for a moment at the sharpness of the tiny chiseled thorns, and the imprint left in their wake. 

“You shall remain here, my child,” Sarah nearly gagged on the sentiment, knowing it was less than sincere. “For like unto Christ in the Garden, you will pray through the night— alone. Perhaps the endless hours on your knees will curb your obduracy.” Placing both hands atop her weapon, her voice jovial as a spring bride, she smirked. “From the first bead, if you will. Start again.”

**********

Behind a locked door, in the farthest room in the cellars, the faint glow of the fast-setting sun drew long orange lines along the stone walls briefly illuminating a pair of lovers pressed against the solid wood barrier. The room smelt dank, and raw, it was not pleasant by any means however, neither seemed bothered by the musty smell or the cold, wet stone. 

“Sister Agatha is expecting me, I cannot linger.” Came the meek, husky voice of Edith Milburn, as she pulled her lips from her partner, her whole body aflame. “Tell me you missed me, Louis.” she begged, as he pulled the dark covering from her head. Pins ripped through her straw-blonde tresses to clatter messily to the floor, but neither paid them heed. Dragging her lips away, she tried to see through the ever-darkening room, to study the towering form demanding her full attention, but failed. 

With her next heartbeat, his lips were on hers laying claim to their passion. He tasted of brandy and something she could not name. She could sense, more than feel her own hesitation as she battled with her desire and sin. Even if the passion was fleeting, and she unwilling to give herself fully to him, she would savor what pleasure she could, basking in the feel of being wanted. Desired. Falling into the rough feel of his mouth moving against hers. Long gone were the tentative pecks, and airy brushes of flesh, he kissed her with desire. Untamed need pulsed through her veins as he commanded her, taking what little she would give with great abandon. 

Breaking away with a gasp, desperate to take back the breath stolen in the fire of their kiss, Edith panted in his arms. Overwhelmed, she pried her hand from his bruising grip, and laid her palm flat against his chest halting their progress. Edith was not accustomed to such attention, her interactions with the opposite sex were at best, limited— the predominant company being that of the Priest and his brother and the occasional kin of a lunatic. Never had she garnered the attention of a man— how could she? Hidden away with frocks, sisters of God, and other equally undesirable children, Edith had never ideated about something so frivolous— so common— as romance, forbidden or not.

However she captured the eye of Louis Praet, would forever remain a mystery. Her features were much too common, too plain— her smile could never spur a man to war. She was no great beauty, nor was he a born Adonis. Beyond the hallowed walls, in a lifetime where she had not taken her Vows and sworn herself to God, their affair would not raise a single brow— they would be another pair in a crowd of thousands. The reputation of forbidden fruit was not lost on Edith. She was the apple in this decrepit garden, and whether he was the serpent beguiling her into submission, or the pliant Eve merely taking what little was proffered, mattered not. 

Smiling gently, she brushed her fingers gingerly along his stubbled jaw, savoring the rough texture against her fingers. 

Snatching her wrist, the man slammed her body back against the unforgiving door, then bowed forward, plundering her mouth greedily. Pressing his body along the length of hers with a low, dark growl, he moved his lips along small line of skin between her collar and her chin nipping as he went. 

She whimpered, whether from tenderness or desire he did not know. Nor did he care. 

“Louis…” she sighed, “Louis, please!” Biting back the wanton sounds threatening to echo about the chamber, Edith grew stern. “STOP.”

Growling, he lifted his head from her, a dark grin just visible in the growing darkness. “Come now Edith, I am sure you won’t be missed.” He purred against her, his hand sliding along her waist to snatch her hip, dragging her closer. Desperate to relieve the coiling tension winding within his loins, Louis slid his mouth to shell of her ear, nibbling on the lobe.

The room was nearly pitch, the shadows snuffed the last of the waning sunlight as Louis allowed the darkness to flood his vision. It was far easier to submit to his fantasy now that his eyes could not betray the wandering thoughts of his imagination: blonde faded to umber, curling and twisting into disheveled ringlets as green replaced blue beneath thick, dark lashes. He could almost catch the faint scent of roses and lemons, the barest memory kindled the fire burning beneath his skin. He groaned audibly.

She mewled.

Louis pressed himself along the length of her before reclaiming her lips to silence her protestations. His fingers kneaded the sensitive flesh at her hip, the other rising to tangle in her flaxen locks, deepening their kiss. He was insistent, demanding. Heat pulsed in his veins, the sound thrumming in his ears as he continued his onslaught. Slowly, his fingers unclenched, loosing the pin-straight strands as though they truly were the imagined curls of his fantasy. Sliding his hand along the edge of her jaw, down the high collar to trace over her hidden clavicle, his fingers skated over the rise of her breast.

Edith recoiled.

“STOP!” The command was sharp. “Louis, stop.” Her hands flattened against his chest, and with more strength that he believed her capable, she shoved him back. “Sister Agatha is expecting me. I cannot be late.”

Stilling so perfectly, he could have been mistaken for marble, his brow wrinkled as his breathing halted. Unbeknownst to his partner, he blinked furiously trying to cast away the maddening visage of the fragile beauty and the myriad of sensation swelling around him. He had nearly lost control. Had the girl not stopped him he would have laid her bare on the icy stone, heedless of the damp, of the musty fetor as he claimed an illusion. 

Scrubbing a hand across his face, he ground his teeth, biting back the curse waiting on his tongue. Louis sucked in a gargantuan breath, his temples pulsing as his fevered desire finally began to ebb. Pulling himself up to his full height, he stepped back allotting her some necessitated distance. He heard, more than saw, the movements of her hands as she righted her hair and the heavy cloth covering. Narrowing his eyes in amusement, Louis wondered if she somehow managed to gather all the scattered pins from the floor, though he very much doubted she would.

When the subtle rustling faded into the usual clamorous silence of the asylum, Louis dared a step forward. “What does that old crone have you doing this evening?”

Edith startled at his voice, frowning into the dark, where observed her silhouette. “You should not speak of her so.” She chastised, “I am needed in the chapel.”

“The chapel? Whatever for?”

“I am to replace Sister Florence.” She explained, with an air of annoyance.

“You are wasting your evening in the church— at this hour?” Scoffing, he folded his arms across his chest, “It will be empty, the candles snuffed.” He moved closer, fumbling to cup her face in the musty shadows. “I can hardly think you will be missed—”

“Louis,” she whispered as she caught his wrist, halting his progress. “Sister Florence is waiting— I am to replace her. She was detained by an obdurate patient and missed the evening meal.” Edith placed a hand on his chest, with the barest effort pushed him back one, maybe two paces. Were her face visible, he would have seen the disappointment pouting her lips and the uncertainty pinching her brow.

Adjusting the wrinkled cravat at his neck, the guard stared confused at his paramour. “Dear old Aggie is leaving you to the mercy of an unruly madman?” His voice grew dark, bitter. In the stolen room, where even the growing moonlight could not penetrate the dark, Louis growled. 

_“Sister Agatha.”_ She corrected, “I assure you it is hardly worth your concern. The girl is merely paying penance through a night of prayer.” Sighing, she smoothed the front of her frock, her fingers tracing over the large crucifix hanging just below her breasts. His silence was unnerving, the hairs at the nape of her covered neck rose to attention, but still he said nothing.

Unnerved, she was suddenly filled with thick, sticky guilt that clung like day-old porridge along the walls of her stomach. Her fingers pressed firm against her embarrassment-flamed cheeks, quelling the unwanted expressions the threatened to crack her lackadaisical guise. Never had Edith been more grateful for such penumbra. 

Turning to face the door she had been pressed so firmly against minutes before, the slighted woman threw open the heavy door with far less flourish and flair than she had hoped. The orange glow of the torches blurred her vision, forcing Edith to blink through narrowed eyes as she moved through the narrow corridor. One hand wrapped crisp around her cross, the other bawled at her side, she held her chin aloft, determined to maintain her secrets.

Not six paces into the hall, his voice lifted to hang between them. “Are you expected to linger?” Running a hand through his auburn hair, his fingers dislodged the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

“An hour or two.” Looking over her shoulder, refusing to fully turn to the man who piqued her distress, she added softly. “Only until the night guard arrives— I am expected to assist with lock up, and be present for evening prayers.”

Nodding slowly, he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back offering an air of nonchalance. “Even the most genteel behind these walls are still loons.” His head cocked to the side, the pulsing light that danced in his eyes cast shadows along the edges of his face both softening and callousing his features. “Do be careful.” He said, his brow rising, as his voice fell to a whisper. “I find myself— er— that is to say— I find I would be—” he paused as if searching for the word, plucking at the invisible strings of anticipation as if she were an instrument awaiting a melody. She turned fully to face him, her eyes wide, waiting. With two sharp steps, each punctuated by the click of his boots, he closed the gap between them. Reaching for her hand, still balled into a white-knuckled fist, he slowly, deliberately bent to kiss the pale taut skin. Peering up from his stooped position, he grinned. “Remiss without your company.” 

Edith could not help the skittering of her heart, nor the schoolgirl blush tainting her cheeks. Effete foolishness would be the death of her, but she was helpless to stop the rolling storm now that the clouds had been fed. Laden with the water of possibility, she need only prick them like the sharp, jagged mountain peaks to release the straining tempest of her damnation. 

Her heart tattooed when he straightened, his fingers idly tracing the veins of her hand in the faintest caress. “You will be cautious, won’t you?”

Beaming back at his concern, she could not hide the small, breathy laugh as it tumbled from her lips. Rolling her eyes, her head shook in amusement, "I am pleased by your concern but--" Edith stepped forward as her heart swelled. Touched by his vexation, her hand rose to settle against the strong, wide line of his jaw, her thumb absently smoothed the path her lips wished to follow. “I will be perfectly safe, I promise. Besides, it is only the Williams girl—”

The smile faded from his eyes before he could think better of it, and he swallowed the remainder of his reaction, tossing a mask of curiosity atop his face. “The Williams girl?” He parroted, desperate to maintain a steady tone, even as his heart buzzed exhilaratingly beneath his chest. Clenching his jaw to dam the torrent of words— of questions crashing against his psyche, Louis closed his eyes. To the woman who still held his cheek with calm aplomb, he appeared to savor the warmth of her touch. Sliding like the last rays of sun into the watery horizon, his eyes had closed as he tried to take command of his secrets. His desires. It was only after her hand withdrew from his skin, that he was able to add a voice to his thoughts.

“Yes. Sarah Williams, a mere slip of a thing, really." She said, her hand making a dismissive wave near her shoulder. "It was you, I believe, that brought her to her cleansing. It was weeks ago, I doubt you remember—” her laugh was gentle and delicate. Sensing his unease, she frowned, “You've no need for worry. I am merely to observe as she continues with her rosary. Apparently, her prayers were less than sincere.” Dropping her hand she stepped back, "the girl is as docile as a carp!"

"If that is true, then why should you be detained for hours, the rosary hardly takes so long, even by the most foolhardy of sinners?” There was a disbelieving bite to his words, though it he had not meant it to be there.

Pulling her brow into a gentle frown, her expression thoughtful. "It is my understanding that she is to remain in solitary prayer until dawn.”

“Dawn?”

Pursing her lips, her expression grew sad and her lips pursed. Dropping her eyes to the stained-stone floor, she added with a melancholy sigh. “Sister Florence was very cross.” Chewing her lip in the thorny quiet, Edith bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, before glancing over her shoulder at the waiting door. “I really must go.” Rising to her toes, she placed the barest kiss against his stubbled cheek. “Goodnight, Louis.” With a smile, she spun on her heel and raced down the narrow corridor to the heavy, iron bolted door waiting at the end of her path.

Louis loosed the breath he was holding, his heart hammered wildly in his chest. Fate had always been a cruel mistress, taunting him from the shadows, seducing him with a varying array of possibilities. He could not contain his incredulous laugh, nor the excitement flooding his senses. For weeks uselessness sagged his broad shoulders and curved his spine, his chin hanging in crestfallen dejection. How he had longed for a glimpse at his tarnished beauty, for her nearness, her touch! 

One touch. One idle brush of a finger against the tender, perfect flesh of her leg had sustained him through these many weeks. He was desperate to feel the heat of her skin against his fingers, her weight in his arms. 

Louis Praet was no fool. He could do nothing save the countless glances stolen from afar, and the myriad of fantasies haunting his dreams. An overabundance of patience had ensured this moment would come, in truth he had begun to lose hope. Now, in this darkened corridor, with the symphony of madmen crying out their displeasure, Louis smiled. 

He would wait no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I keep leaving you all like this… and really I must apologize! I am so excited to hear what you all think! Please, for the love of the characters— please REVIEW! I love hearing from you all, it honestly inspires me to continue!


	24. Chapter 24

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

_The rod begins to bow,_  
Little by little,  
The metal groans and bends. 

Nauseating effort quieted the unease swirling like rotted ale in his gut. The rope of his patience was waning, pulled to the very limits of its fiber; it creaked and groaned from the immense pressure. He stared through the diamond-paned windows, watching as the street lamps came to life one by one. The lighting sticks bobbed along the twists and turns of the city, balanced atop the shoulders of the leeries as they went about the night’s work. Thick petals of snow fluttered silently to the earth, glistening in the gentle golden glow of the lamps.

It was not the first snowfall of winter. Two had preceded it, but they had been little more than a dusting of flour atop a loaf of bread. Three hours of timid drifting and the snow was deep enough to swallow a shoe. The scene beyond his window was an idyllic painting meant to be savored, but he could hardly bear the sight. 

He had been a youth waiting atop his horse for the bloodiest battle in centuries to begin the last time he felt such suffocating worry. Where is she? It was the ever-present thought in his recurring nightmare. Where was his Riddle? Where was the impossible girl and her impossible dreams?

Spinning on his heel, he moved from the window to stand before the roaring fire, snatching his forgotten whiskey from the mahogany mantle. Tossing back the amber liquid, a stray drop skated along his newly-stubbled cheek, mingling with his pale whiskers. 

He paid it no mind. 

Unblinking he stared, sweat collecting on his brow to drip down his back, but still he did not move. Instead, he breathed in the hot air, savoring the heat of the flames against his face, chest, feet, tasting both soot and despair. Dancing ribbons of orange and white swirled over and around the blackened logs, each popping and crackling as the heat consumed their essence. He was mesmerized, soothed by the swirling colors even as sweat began to dampen the remaining bandages beneath his wrinkled linen shirt. The salted perspiration irritated his salubrious wounds. Clenching his fist, he fought against the tingling itch. 

Where _was_ she? 

Growling, his fist clenched again, shattering the glass in his palm. The sharp sting of alcohol burned as it seeped into his fresh abrasions. Blood trickled from his closed fist, collecting along the ruff of his sleeve. Closing his eyes, he allowed the pain, little as it was, to soothe his festering vexation. Sighing heavily, he wiped his brow with the back of his arm, matting the fine hairs to his temple. 

Sarah had not wished him back. Nor had she called to him in the bonds of slumber; a fact far more troubling than the injuries incurred by her ill-spoke and unwitting wish. The pestiferous voice mumbling incessantly at the back of his mind would not let his worry be a fleeting fancy. He was much too experienced, and far too invested in his Riddle to believe that all was well.

Sarah was in danger. 

It was not a fact, but rather intuition that guided his thoughts. Not two weeks prior, he was certain he could not have answered her summons, his body still suffering the effect of her words. Far slower than he and Emere would have liked, the familiar warmth of his magic returned little by little until at long last he was whole. 

Should Sarah call him now, uttering her whispered wish under the shroud of night, the spider-cracked lantern held aloft as she searched the tree line for his snow-feathered form, he would answer. Her beryl eyes bright, filled to the brim with a melancholic hope as she chewed her lip, the color more lambent than that of a fresh primrose. Wind would rouge the tip of her nose, and dust along the freckled apples of her cheeks, and despite the heavy cloak, patched and faded from years of overuse, she would still shiver under the crisp starlight. He would appear upon pearlescent wing, hold her and stare into those eyes just to make sure she was safe.

Driving the jagged shards further into the calloused skin of his palms, the Goblin King winced, the sharp ache driving the images away at once. Crimson continued to seep from the wound, the edge of his sleeve now sodden, overflowing onto the flagstone hearth, his mind transfixed by the falling droplets and the distinctive patterns left in their wake. Years upon years of rigorous training instilled by his father, who insisted that instincts were far more accurate than the Faceless Seers, and the agonizing hours spent in the fray of battle had taught him to trust the strange sensation itching at the nape of his neck. 

Sarah was in danger.

The door to his chambers creaked softly upon its hinges as Emere ushered himself inside. Consternation pinched his lips, his usually well-groomed mustache was in disarray, as though he had been scrubbing his face repeatedly with agitated strokes. The man looked weary, his usually tanned skin had a sallowness about it, making him appear almost etiolated as he fell into a seat by the fire. His usual formalities and decorum forgotten as he leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees as his fingers entwined. He was loathe to speak.

“You still have not found her.” It was not a question. Bearing the weight of uncertainty, his shoulders sagged as his uninjured hand gripped the mantle tight, his other rested atop the wood, creating a new place for his blood to collect. 

A piteous, soft muttering came from the occupied chair. “I am doubtful we will, my friend.” Swallowing the rock of failure lodged in his throat, the crestfallen adviser frowned deeply. “We are limited in our dealings with the mortals— what little knowledge we have gathered is useless at best. Your little human was seen in the first weeks following your…” he gestured to his king, letting the unspoken memory trail into the fire. “Well… that. There has been talk of a carriage and an _Estate.”_ He said rather glib, as though disbelieving his own words, “little else is spoken in regards to Sarah Williams. Almost as though she vanished like a thief in the night.”

“She did not vanish.” Glancing over his shoulder, but still unable to see the man seated almost entirely behind him, the king queried. “Why would a carriage be of import? Or an estate for that matter?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but…” Emere paused, his hand rubbing the scruff on his chin, a thoughtful look clouded his eyes. “It was spoken of in hushed tones— the Estate, I mean— as though it were forbidden. The carriage is neither here nor there.” He sighed heavily, replacing his limbs to rest on the arms of the wingback chair. “I do not know what the estate is, or what it means in regards to your Riddle. However, if there are answers to be had you will find them there.” 

The King’s nod went unnoticed, as the adviser rose and moved to the sideboard at the far wall of the room. He could hear the sloshing of liquid and the dramatic gulps as the man downed not one, but three shots of Goblin Whiskey. Allowing his shoulders to droop, Emere refilled his glass once more, his free hand hanging limp at his side. 

Even in the darkened room, with the fire at his back, the purple bruises under his tired eyes were evident. For nearly two months he wore the robes of both nursemaid and adviser, juggling his duties with steadfast determination. What little sleep he had managed to steal, for indeed it was stolen in the oddest hours and the shortest intervals, had only just served to keep the exhaustion at bay. For as soon as the King regained his senses, Emere had been put to the onerous task of finding the girl and ensuring her wellbeing. 

A task he foolishly believed simple.

Sarah Williams was a ghost. For three weeks after nearly wishing the King into an early grave, the girl had vanished without a trace. Her belongings, which he himself had searched with more fervor than care, had been neatly packed in a worn and splintering trunk waiting at the foot of her four poster bed. Emere had not been comfortable searching through the girl’s personal effects and loitering in the place she called home, and he had not been shy in his protestations.

Fae could rarely walk the mortal plain for more than an hour or two before their magic felt the siphoning pull of the mortal world. The eternal absence of spellcraft was unhealthy, but far worse than the stultification of power, was the unbridled fear summoned by the mortals at the barest whisper of their existence. Dread and superstition were the greatest weapons in the mortal arsenal, every man, woman, and child carried them heavily upon their backs as an archer with his quiver. The stench drove them in masses to the pyre and the noose, their torches held aloft as they marched the sinners onward to their deaths. 

Fae do not do well beyond the realm of the Underground. 

Stalking to the fire, needing the heat to soothe his fractured nerves and ease the discomforting pity in his heart, Emere stood beside his king. Glancing to the pale, weary man beside him, his brows shot to his hairline at the pooling trickle of blood dripping from the mantle to the stones beneath. Fetching a handkerchief from the desk near the sideboard, Emere returned, frowning at the sulking figure. 

“While I am glad to see that your strength has returned, I cannot say I agree with your methods of analysis.” Without further preamble, he pulled the hand away and began his initial examination of the lacerations. At least five shards protruded from the open gashes, each coated in a thick, warm layer of blood. The wounds were deep and even with the assistance of both magic and herbs his hand would remain bound for at least a week, though unlike mortals he would require no needle and thread. “If you missed your injuries, I would have been delighted to add to your fading collection.” Smirking he was rewarded with a wan smile, the first he had seen since the man flew through the study window, drenched in sweat and blood.

“Thank you, my friend.” His words were filled with quiet sincerity, though his face was still pinched with the deep lines of worry. The words were not simply a thanks for his improvised bandages, but for rather for the herculean efforts on his behalf concerning the whereabouts of the impossible girl. Pulling his oddly wrapped hand free of the adviser, the king dropped heavily into the now occupied chair, the wood creaking under the sudden force. “How do we find this estate?” 

“I could not tell you.” Emere sighed, snatching his abandoned tumbler from the mantle, then taking the seat across from the king. Sipping lightly from the glass, he slid further down in the seat, dropping his head to the back of the chair. “I know what you are going to ask, and I must insist that I cannot!” His voice grew angered, though his position did not change, “I have spent too much time in the mortal realm as it is, my body— my magic— is suffering. I am suffering!” Running a hand through his already disheveled hair, Emere whispered. “Without a wish, your Riddle is lost.”

Closing his fist around the impromptu bandage, he welcomed the burning ache that accompanied the tightening of muscles and pinching of wounds. “She has not wished…” the truth fell away from his lips as a deep crest wrinkled his winged brows, his voice nearly silent. “Nor has she dreamt of me or the Labyrinth.” Shaking his head in disquietude, he pinched his lips, rolling them together as he thought. “Sarah is in danger… I can sense it.” He rubbed his unwrapped hand against his chest, “I feel it, Emere. I _feel_ her absence as keenly as a blade in battle. From the moment she started dreaming of me I felt the summons at the edge of my magic. Night after night she called to me until that fateful day when she wished… Emere I have never known her mind to be silent and now that is all I hear.” 

The familiar white light touched the tips of his fingers as he lounged worryingly in the armchair, his elbows on the arms for support. A single, perfect glass orb perched atop his hand, held steady for a moment before the mesmerizing routine began and the ball rolled along and around with ease. The impossible, fluid motion eased the thrumming in his skull, if only just. Shimmering beneath the glass lay the image of Sarah, her lips pulled in an unbridled smile meant solely for him. The soft glow of the lantern highlighting the delicate contours of her face as the faintest blush tinged her cheeks. 

It was a memory he recalled fondly. And often.

Glancing over to the man sprawled in the opposite chair, the Goblin King could not help but smile. Emere finally slept. His head tipped back, mouth slightly agape as a faint snore began to rumble from his chest, the tumbler had not yet fallen from his grasp, but he suspected it would very soon. 

Pity, it would ruin the set.

The king closed his fist, shattering the ball to glittering dust, shaking the errant thought from his mind. His precious Riddle was no longer dreaming! _Sarah is in danger! Find her! Find her!_ The raging thought made his chest thrum painfully once more. He had to find her! Each day spent longing for her wish was like awaiting a deluge in the desert. How was he to find her? Entering her dreams without a summons— without a wish— was impossible. She was a champion of the Labyrinth, she had retaken the child, and forgotten her hours in the Underground as she was always meant to, and just as before she was gone. How could he find the girl never meant to be found? If only he could enter her dreams, beg her to wish him back! The very notion was imposs… 

No…

The idea was absurd, he could no more enter her dream than she could leap into his! While he did not explicitly abide by the letter of the law, he certainly did not abstain them either. He had told her once that even he, a king, was bound by rules and on their last evening together he proved as much during their tête-à-tête. Beholden to the rules of his magic, of his crown, he was loath to put them in jeopardy— and yet… the thought remained. He was the King of Dreams and Nightmares, and if Sarah were dreaming what harm would it do to gander? He had entered before— why should he not enter again?

The Goblin King did not break rules— he bowed them.

**********

Sarah had long since lost feeling in her legs. 

The constant buzzing of ill-used limbs had finally ceased, leaving an empty void from her waist downward. That, however, did not stop the cold from permeating her skin. Her teeth had been chattering for hours as she tried desperately to continue her vigilant prayers. Each vertebrae of her spine ached from the force of her trembling as the muscles around her heart burned from the effort to keep her warm. Though she had not seen her reflection, she knew her lips were tinged with blue, and her nose, cheeks and ears were red as a beetroot. 

Teetering on her knees, Sarah struggled to remain upright as her body rocked to and fro in her effort to remain conscious. Exhaustion had weakened her every faculty, her lips could barely shape her words, her eyes burning as her lids sank lower and lower. Jolting violently, her head shot back as her eyes flew open in an effort to stave off the inevitable.

Frailness drowned her where she knelt, and she toppled forward under the crashing wave of languor, her hands almost failing to catch her. Another monstrous growl rolled in her core as thirst continued to burn her throat. How long since her last meal? How long since she had been well and truly cared for? Swallowing the thought, her head gave a minute shake as she tried to redirect her thoughts. 

Sarah remained as she was, frozen on hands and knees, her body trembling as another wave of fatigue unmoored her. She felt it move beyond her reach, slipping through her fingers as she felt herself slide into the welcomed darkness of sleep; her body ached from the fight against wakefulness. When her arms wilted beneath her, she toppled forward, her cheek slapping hard against the uneven stone, the rosary sprawling from her open palm. Sleep did not take her then, instead it danced just beyond her reach.

Fighting to clear her mind from the discomfort pulsing with every heartbeat, tears spilled down her cheeks for the first time in hours as her throat grew tighter. The eerie quiet of the empty chapel surrounded her, beckoning her submission into the world of slumber, her willpower faltering as her blinks grew farther and farther apart. Eventually she succumbed, and fell into the darkness, the tear tracks still damp on her cheeks.

__________________________________________________________

_“Sarah.”_

The sound was nearly lost in the raging sea of her tumultuous slumber as her heart missed a beat. _“Sarah…”_ the whisper beckoned again, the soft rolling timbre begging her attention. _“Do you hear me?”_ Had she been more aware, she would have felt the pressure of his worry tingle against her skin as familiarity surfaced. Pity her sleep was equally burdened by the exhaustion of her wakefulness.

Her name reechoed once more, presaged choler painting her name in shaking, dark letters. The canvas sagged beneath the imagined weight of the phantom intonation as spiders raced along her spine making her shiver painfully, despite the cold. The overwhelming desire she was loath to fight swelled within her, demanding she respond. Trembling, her lips parted, but only a weary hum slipped past the dry, chapped skin.

Palpable relief flooded the near-pitch room, like the glittering ribbons of sunshine snaking through pregnant winter clouds. That minuscule warmth becoming a blazing fire against the frozen, frosted air. 

Fluttering slowly, her eyes opened to survey the tilted room, her heart crashing to the pit of her empty stomach. Had she slept— was this a dream? The ice of the stones burned against her cheek, seeping through the thin, uniform nightdress, chilling her very core. The ameliorating sunbeams retreated behind the black-grey clouds, the loss squeezing her heart painfully in her breast.

Sprawled prone, having remained in the exact position in which she had collapsed, Sarah twitched the fingers of her right hand, still entwined with the thick beads of the rosary, the cross imprinting painfully into her palm. Though her limbs seemed capable of some movement, she possessed not an ounce of motivation to make use of them, choosing instead to remain upon the floor. 

The prickling needles of fear stabbed against her goose-pebbled skin; lackadaisicalness was a punishable offense, and thus far Sarah had managed to pulverize the delicate eggshells beneath her feet. Should someone find her as she was, somnolent and speechless, there would be hell to pay. One taste of the whip had supplied enough memories to last a lifetime—her scars still tender to the touch. Were she discovered as she was, Sarah would be a feast on an _Inquisitional_ banquet.

Sarah could not bring herself to care.

_“Sarah?”_ The voice returned, loud and insistent. Jostled, her heartbeat thrummed, her eyes darting about the room, but still she did not rise. Slamming her eyes closed against the incoming storm of her transgression, Sarah swallowed the stone wedged in her throat. She was terrified. Her answering whimper seemed to placate the disembodied sound, for the next words were a gentle sibilation. _“Where are you?”_

“I am here.” Her voice was airy, and nearly as disembodied as the other. Vanishing as instantly as it appeared on the edge of her lips, the barest of smiles glimmered before disappearing into a weary, morose frown.

A gentle rumble of near-silent laughter spread a flame of warmth across her chest, and her heart eased a fraction at the gentle sound. _“Of course you are.”_ Sarah was certain she could hear the smile in the languid baritone, and her mind took the liberty of pairing a handsome face with the soothing sound. _“Please, you must tell me where you are.”_

“I am here— I did not leave. I swear it.” Panic threatened in her still-fragile voice. “I m-must…finish…the prayers. My prayers.” The sound coming from her throat hardly belonged to her as she struggled to string her thoughts together as exhaustion fogged her mind. Her eyelids grew heavy, sinking against her will and she fought valiantly to keep them open.

_“What of the lake? Will you go there soon?”_ the gentle probing sounded hopeful, tinged with a starkly restrained thrill. 

“No!” Her eyes shot open, the empty chapel filling her view as her breaths became rapid, and her heart raced. Choking back the tears she was certain would break the crumbling dam of her resolve, Sarah spoke in sibilated finality. “No, never again.”

A long, eerie silence encompassed her, the cold settling deeper into her bones as her eyes grew heavy once again. Sleep sang to her, the siren song wrapping like a thick, velvet ropes around her ankles, pulling her along the murky depths into the utopia bliss of sleep. 

_“Sarah, please, you must tell me where you are.”_

Groaning as the ropes unwound from her limbs, floating away and beyond her reach, Sarah pouted. “I told you. I am _here,_ in the chapel.” Furrowing her brow, her eyes squeezed shut like a willful child on the edge of a tantrum.

Equally annoyed, the voice responded. _“Of course you are, my dear.”_

Flying open, as though she meant to catch sight of a wandering angel, Sarah lifted her head a fraction, trying desperately to ignore the stabbing pain throbbing behind her eyes. Placing her head against the icy stone, her eyes flew around the space, unseeing, her memories flashing violent as a summer storm. 

“I…know.. you.” She breathed almost wistfully, the faintest breath lifting into the air in disbelief. 

Only after he spoke her name again did she comprehend the exact familiarity of the phantom voice. The sound filled with longing as it wrapped softly around her senses, holding her in its warm, rich timbre. Sarah recognized this voice. It had haunted her dreams for months before she had silenced it with her foolishness. But this could not be! Sarah was dreaming. The man whose voice danced in her mind, teasing at her memories, could not belong to the Goblin King— that would be impossible! 

“You… you shouldn’t…” The gaping maw of exhaustion stretched wide, unhinging like a snake to a mouse as she rocked precariously on the edge. Sleep beckoned and she was unwilling to fight against the alluring pull. “You aren’t here.”

The countless wishes, offered in the stolen minutes before slumber (others begged in desperation and fear) remained unanswered for as long as she could recall. The man she had broken— bent with her careless words, was lost forever, and she was left to grieve him alone. It was illogical to think his voice was reverberating within her mind; that he was there whispering in her dreams, calling to her as he had once done.

But Sarah was not dreaming.

The alluring voice was nothing more than a desperate memory, called forth by the last vestiges of her fragile sanity as she lay teetering on the edge of sleep. Lethargy was dangerous, and she had been denied rest often enough that it clung to her person like rusted iron shackles locked tight around her wrists and ankles. Day after day her movements grew more and more sluggish, the weight becoming harder and harder to bear. 

While certainly not the first time she had been haunted by the voice of her victim (he had called to her often in the depths of her nightmares, and in the soft moments of wakefulness before true consciousness took hold) never had his voice sounded so crystalline, so like she remembered. From the moment his battered bloodied form took wing, Sarah had missed him, her chest aching from the loss. Gritting her teeth against the renewed pang in her heart, Sarah tried to push the burning, raw longing into the back of her mind but it was no use. The damn of her emotions threatened to burst as her mind turned over the few, but undeniably precious interactions with the Impossible Man.

_“Sarah, you must wish me back.”_

“I-I… I can’t.”

_“Wish me back.”_

The voice was a lie, she knew, but she welcomed the sound of it nonetheless. Sarah welcomed the deception, savoring the balm it cast over her nerves as she lay shivering on the stone. “No,” she whispered into the dark, her voice breaking from disuse, “you… aren’t r-real.”

_“Sarah, please, make your wish.”_ It was not a request. Sarah could almost imagine his lips pressing into a thin, hard line as a light flashed in the back of his mismatched eyes. He would use his imposing height to press his advantage, his head cocked to the side, daring her to defy him. 

A small _v_ formed between her brows as she frowned, _“I have.”_ Her mouth had become heavy, the words too much for her drifting, addled mind to bear. “I have made my wish… night after night… the— my _right words.”_ Each blink became longer, the effort to raise her eyelids growing more and more distinct. “I never stopped.”

_“Wish again, Sarah. Please. Wish me back.”_

“Y- you are not…real.” 

_“Sarah, **please— please wish me back!** ”_

Sarah was slipping, she felt herself start to slide back into the darkness. The soothing, calming darkness that promised reprieve from her torment, from the cruel trick of mind. Reprieve from the echo of a voice she longed to hear, if only one last time. With sad finality, Sarah mumbled her words before catapulting into nothingness. “You are dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello my lovelies! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I do! Please tell me your thoughts! I know I say it a bunch, but seriously reviews make writing easier. What can I say, reviews up my confidence! Please, please review! I love you all! Until next chapter…


	25. Chapter 25

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

_Shattered orbs…_  
Ribbons and rubies…  
Spoils and sin… 

The Goblin King stared. 

His reflection stared back, his mismatched eyes boring into his with the same intensity that terrified countless foes on bloody battlefields long since passed. His body hitched involuntarily as his spine hunched taut. He could feel his magic itching along his fingers, scratching along sinewy forearms, wrapping coarse tendrils into his thin, broad shoulders. His ire a hurricane swirling beneath his skin as he ground his teeth against the storm. 

_You are dead._

His hands slammed against the long side table, the pitcher and basin quaked, as the king growled. "She believes me dead." His lungs strained to draw breath as his heart beat against his breastbone with shattering force. Each jagged rasp was agony and his eyes burned from the effort, She believes me dead!

Lifting his head, his shoulders set in fierce determination, the posture of a predator, he again met his reflection. Madness lurked in the depths of those unequal irises, flashing intermittently with onerous swivet and pain as moisture began to bead along his brow. His mind had laid the uneven brickwork of pessimism, preparing him for the inevitable eschewal of his Riddle, he had been prepared to let her go. Again. As each week bled into the next and his power returned, slower than a ship on a windless sea, the king— grudgingly— examined the notion that she would be finished with him and their midnight trysts. 

The Goblin King never believed their lakeside rendezvous would last forever. Eventually, they would have parted ways, be it in tears or anger, solemnity or indifference, Sarah would cease to wish. How naive he had been— to think that such a thing would not disturb him so profoundly! 

_I have wished… night after night…_

A far more disturbing thought crept into his brain, the black spider spinning webs of putrefied worry in the shadowy corners. Night after night… he was certain he had not heard Sarah's calling, he would have rushed to her side before the final words fell from her lips— wounds be damned! 

_Night after night…_

A growl rose from deep within his chest, bursting free to become a feral roar that threatened to shake the very castle in which he stood. His fist slammed against the glass, splintering the pristine surface and tearing the unmarred ridges of his knuckles. The crisp bandages of his previous injury stained red. Over and over his hand cracked against the jagged, razored surface, the topography of his flesh shifting from the impact, blood soaking his hand. Radiating up his wrist, the pain did little to quiet the churning rage rumbling in his veins. With a final ululation, he snatched at the ruined glass and threw the heavy frame violently across the room before tossing the table along with it. 

The Goblin King had not heard her wishes.

**********

Louis Praet glanced down to the slumbering nymph ferreted beneath his heavy wool coat, his own lips stretched in a reserved smile. Above the upturned collar, her short tangle of curls covered most of her beauty, but he found he was not bothered. The contented sigh that slipped past her lips as he laid the warm garment over her trembling flesh had been more than enough to ease his yearning for the young beauty. If only for a few short hours.

The cockcrow was too near to be ignored any longer, the heavy piceous blanket hovering behind the stars had begun to fade into the louring slate of dawn. Beyond the stained glass windows, a pregnant fog clung to the lily-white snow blooming atop the frost-brittled grass. The day would be unforgivably cold. 

He knew he must wake her, lest the torrent that was Sister Florence reign fire and ash upon his waifish charge, leaving her to spend another day in righteous prayer. Weak to a fault, the girl was fed barely enough to stave the most obvious signs of voracity, another night in the chapel would be her undoing. Louis would not stand for it.

Whilst he knew the girl deserved to be courted properly, with countless bouquets of roses so fragrant she needn't bother with perfumes, and jewels sparkling to rival the brilliance of the sun, his circumstances prevented such fantasy. Louis wished he could provide her with extravagant frivolities day after day, as though she were, not royalty, but a goddess. A celestial being born for the express purpose of worship. He would be baptized in her love and his devotion boundless, but alas, his purse was too empty for religion.

In the world beyond the asylum, where decorum and propriety were akin to cleanliness, Sarah Williams would be lost to him. It was only here, amid the vagabonds, lunatics, and villains that he could entertain such preposterous thoughts of love and pleasure. Were she not broken, chipped and fractured like a mismatched set of bone china, she would never have crossed the threshold of this Godforsaken hole. 

Silently, he had observed her through the red-stained glass of the ornate windows deep set in solid oak doors. Spine rigid, the girl knelt beneath the unseeing Christ, her head bowed in pious contrition. He had watched as she swayed atop her knees, his palm pressed flat against the door to quell his trembling limb. When she collapsed against the stone, her sibilated whimpers slipping beneath the gap in the threshold, it had taken all he possessed to remain fixed behind the wood slab.

More than once he had nearly lost himself, his hand hovering over the iron ring, his muscles tense, but he did not falter. The overwhelming desire to succor the girl was trumped by the garish luminescence of reality. For if she basked in the anodyne waters of healing, mending the myriad of fractures in her psyche, Sarah Williams would be free.

He would die first.

For nearly an hour he had watched her shiver in the dark, her body trembling on the unforgiving floor before he dared enter. Another five minutes passed before he surrendered his coat as a reprieve from the biting cold. For two hours she slept undisturbed, and he watched her vigilantly. Studying the subtle movements of her lips, and the gentle sounds purred into the darkness, Louis could not remember a time he felt more contented, even if he was left unsated.

Dropping to his knee beside her prone form, Louis smoothed a single digit over the line of flesh peeking between her curls and the borrowed coat. At the feel of her icy, porcelain skin beneath his coarse fingers, he sighed audibly, closing his eyes as his head tipped back. Pulse rampant, Louis fell into the simmering pool of his desire, succumbing to the urge he brushed the curls from her face.

Louis reared back as the girl stirred, a pained whimper sliced through the silence between them, the sound ripped him from his stupor. Her eyes flew open, boring into his own for a moment before fluttering closed once more, her exhaustion too heavy to fight. Casting a glance first to the high windows, still dark despite the encroaching dawn, then to the heavy doors which remained slightly ajar from his entrance. 

God, how he wished he could linger and allow her to slumber! Had they more time he could have warmed her further, his body pressed tightly against her own, as she cocooned within the shelter of his arms. What sweet ambrosial scent would capture his senses holding her so near? Would she resist, or could he coax her into his embrace? 

A sudden urgency to see her wake fluttered deep within his gut like the dead leaves in autumn. The way the rabbit is aware of the prowling wolf at the edge of the forest, so too was Louis aware that the austere nuns were soon to disturb the quiet chapel. While he could not deny the temptation to leave her to the mercy of the sisters where she would be punished for her otioseness, even the finest china would leak if too broken. 

Moving to stand by her feet, and with wanton slowness he dragged the heavy wool from her person, revealing her lithe frame for his scrutiny. If only he had more time! Pulling the coat onto his shoulders, her lingering redolence encompassed him in the sweetest delicacy he had ever known. It was the same scent-- buried beneath the pungent fumes of rodents, sweat, and blood-- that had drawn him into the mouth of obsession. 

With a deep, slow inhale he pulled her perfume into his lungs, imprinting her into his memory forevermore. Once the evidence of his interference was firmly around his shoulders, Louis begrudgingly shook the girl awake, watching as her eyes blinked apart. 

"Miss…" he grumbled, shaking her gently again. "Miss, please, you must wake." Tossing a glance over his shoulder, Louis began pulling the girl to her knees. "The sisters are coming… please." 

Humming, the girl slumped in his arms. Her chin dropped and she fell forward, her momentum halted by the hands firmly clamped around her shoulders. She was thin, her weight so slight she could hardly crease his waistcoat as she leaned fully into him, her head nuzzling his chest as sleep pulled her under. Her closeness was richer than the most luxurious wine. Even her hair, matted and tangled as it was, felt soft as lamb’s fleece against his cheek. 

He was loathe to move her, but move her he must. 

With almost violent force, he shoved her upright with a low growl. As before, she teetered and fell, her breath tickling the at his ear as she loosed a light snore. His body responded immediately, his nerves on fire as he allowed himself one forbidden moment to savor the feel of her against his chest. It was only when his heart became restless, and his skin prickled with want, begging him to press her nearer did he release her. 

He could not trust his body in such proximity to her own.

With almost violent force he removed her from his person, shoving her upright with a low, lustrous growl. Shifting awkwardly, he moved to kneel before her, shaking her hard enough to make her teeth chatter and her eyes flutter. Still she did not fully wake.

Desperate, Louis cuffed the side of her face. 

Her lip split beneath his hand and her eyes shot open, tears soaking the edge of her lashes as she looked frantically about the space. Fear, crisp and palpable, darkened her green irises as she locked her gaze with his. Trembling, her lips tried to form the words swimming about the murky waters of her brain, but she was helpless to speak. 

“You must continue your prayers… they are coming.” Louis rose abruptly and stalked to the doors, not looking back at the temptress kneeling, wide eyed beneath the crucified Christ. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but a stinging cheek was far better than whatever the women-of-God would do to her if they knew she had slept. 

The girl would forgive him.

**********

He reminded her of the Goblin King. 

Not in appearance, but the way in which he stalked about, circling her like a vulture to the dead. She did not meet his charcoal-silver stare, much to his disappointment. He had not spoken a single word, nor opened his mouth in the fifteen minutes since she was dragged to his office and dropped unceremoniously into the worn, plush chair.

Instead, Harold Elswick paced, each step slow and calculated as he made a circle around the whole of the room. The guff of pipe tobacco swirled unseen above them, burning her eyes and leaving a bitter tang in her mouth. 

Exhaustion still clung to her like the fog along the moors. Periodically, her head tipped forward, her eyes sliding closed of their own volition as sleep beckoned. In the beginning she had taken to driving her nails into the cuticle of her thumb, the ache strong enough to take the barbarous edge off her growing tiredness. Yet as time dragged on, and her dosage of laudanum varied daily, the pain had become nothing more than excess pressure. 

She took to biting her cheek instead. 

The office was strangely ornate, filled with luxurious furnishings that were in stark contrast with the dank rooms where she was often confined. Near the heavy-draped window, clouded from both fog and beading condensation, were two large, overstuffed chairs in dark velvet, perched atop an expensive Persian rug. 

Not for the first time, she wondered how an asylum physician could afford such exorbitant decor… though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

"Twelve weeks you have been here," the doctor chimed. "Twelve."

Turning, he continued his route, walking behind his desk and along the wall to her left. "My brother claims your soul is no longer in jeopardy," his voice hung heavy with skepticism as he circled the room. The gentle click of his shoes muffled with each step upon the plush carpet. "It would appear your Cleansing has proved fruitful…" his words trailed away briefly before he added, with distinct choler, he footsteps halting at her back. "Whilst you have reclaimed possession over your soul, the stain-- tar upon snow-- will never abate. Because of your foolishness you have been marked, kissed by darkness, your candle nearly snuffed." Clearing his throat, he pressed on, "I merely seek to guide your mind to peace-- but you know this. Week after week you have heard my odious speech of healing and freedom, and time and time again you have remained steadfast in your silence. We cannot hope for progress if you will not speak."

Harold stepped closer, his fingers wrapping around the top edge of the chair, digging into the faded material. "Silence cannot grant your freedom." 

_Neither will compliance._ Biting her cheek with ripping force, she kept her retort locked away, her eyes drifting back to the opaque window.

"I very much believe in my brother's work, though I admit to a great degree of skepticism at first, the results are irrefutable." His tone lifted, a matter-of-factness diluting his words. "The soul is of little interest to me, I have found the most fascinating are often devoid of theirs." 

Abruptly he moved from behind her, to resume his monotonous dance. "While those who have cleansed themselves are more apt to my treatments, I am still able to tend to the ...less fortunate." A dark, secretive joke curled his lip and he chuckled ominously. "My fondest wish is to see what is lurking in the minds of the vilest, cruelest, most insidious beings to ever walk the earth… but alas as it stands such things are impossible. Nevertheless, I am getting closer. With every failure there is a grain of progress--a beacon if you will-- that illuminates another fraction of the dark."

Again he stopped directly at her back, his hands taking their position once more. He remained silent for an inordinate amount of time, the sound of this fingers tapping the chair counted the passing minutes. 

At long last, when her eyes had become lead and her cheek a decocted, bloodied mess, did he finally speak. His voice changed from that of a scholar mid recitation, to the deep, gravelly timbre of vaingloriousness. "A cleansed soul is only the beginning. I must scour your mind of its rabid impurities and licentious imaginings. Your perfidy has been found out, and you are at a crossroads." 

Prowling, he moved to tower before her. His cold, unflinching eyes daring her defiance as he looked down his long, crooked nose. The air turned cold. The blazing fire, unable to burn the frost from her bones at the man's villainous glare, roared at the other end of the room.

"I can heal you, Sarah Williams. I can mend the crooked, broken cogs in your brain, refitting new and better ones so that you will not fall victim to such depravity again. I can make you whole, reborn as the woman you once were before weakness overcame you. It will be painless, if you but submit to my will. Let me heal you."

Slowly, he knelt, reaching for her hands knotted atop her lap. Softly, his thumb caressed her skin, the touch offering a strange, but not altogether unwanted moment of comfort. Her hands grew warm, and her mind drifted.

_You must wish me back…_

The burning sands of her memory sank beneath her feet as she tried to remain grounded. _Tell me where you are…_ The dream had lingered fresh on her mind in the days that followed. Never fading. She could recall the feel of his words as they wrapped around her, the hum if his baritone as he whispered her name. _Make your wish._

A growl was her only warning. Pulled from her lucid dreaming, Sarah yelped as his hand slowly crushed her own. Her bones popped audibly in his vice grip, shifting under the immense pressure forcing her to cry out. Still he did not relent. Sarah screamed. Struggling, she attempted to pry her hand free, the pain mounting as the bound of her self-inflicted silence were tested.

"Wrong choice."

**********

Shards glittered across the floor, shattered in the storm of terrified madness. Reflecting the candlelight in the hundreds of pieces sprawling over the stone, the fragments lay in a tangle of snow white powder and porcelain bits. Each bearing witness to the tempestuous fray of panic and loss. Droplets of crimson rubies dotted a trail along the wreckage leading to the man kneeling atop the glass, his shoulder rounded, his hands splayed, helpless.

The sonorous carnage of the adjoining room had not woken Emere from his dreamless slumber, where the pains of his _excursions_ were easily forgotten as he lingered in the black abyss. It was not a sound that ripped him violently from the bowels of sleep, but a fluttering over his skin. He had not been touched, yet his senses became alert as something intangible drifted out of reach.

Jolting with such violence he nearly toppled from his seat, Emere clutched at his heart dragging deep gulps into his lungs. Sweat dampened his brow, molding his linen shirt to his chest. Disoriented, his eyes darted about, the blazing fire reflecting off the gold filigree blinding him as he searched for the source of his distress. 

He was alone.

How long had he slept? Ticking softly on the mantle, the clock stretched its hands wide, each pointing to opposite sides of its face. No doubt the king had long since gone to bed. There was no reason for his distress, and as the quiet settled around him, Emere felt the frantic drumming of his heart ease into its usual rhythm.

Fluttering feathers of auspice brushed along his nerves, dusting his skin in the iridescent powder of tenebrose worry. Rising from his chair, the bones in his aged knees creaked as he stepped forward heedless of the broken tumbler beside him. The room was much too warm, in the hours he'd slept, the air had become stifling and viscid. 

The charred logs snapped in the hearth, the sound creeping along his neck, prickling his awareness and rolling the bile in his gut. Each breath was strained as he turned about, noting with keen displeasure that the room remained entirely unchanged. With the exception of the monarch, there was nothing missing and yet…

Scrubbing a hand down his face, the adviser growled through his exhaustion. It was far too late-- or perhaps too early-- for such childish anxieties. Whatever ghost sought to haunt him could certainly wait until morning. Striding purposefully to the door, Emere snatched the handle, his grip almost enough to crush the iron beneath his hand. 

Fainter than leaves twinkling on the breeze, the sensation returned, kindling the glowing embers of his worry until thick, orange ribbons singed his flesh.

Where was the king?

Cursing repeatedly as a soldier in the throws of war, his own foolishness grated against his nerves. His eyes rolled audibly as he released his hold on the door, spinning to re-enter the quiet room. Emere ground his teeth, his nostrils flared as he stormed to the adjoining door waiting at the far side of the room. 

Leaning closer against the wood, he waited, but heard nothing beyond the sound of his own slow, exhausted breath. Shaking his head, looked to the ceiling as though it could provide an explanation for his newfound beadledom. Pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the swelling tension behind his over-tired eyes, the adviser schooled his insouciance as he opened the door the barest fraction. 

The dressing room was dark, the fire beyond gasped on the final threads of the black, withered logs resting in the hearth. The fading light reflected along the floor, highlighting the pogrom with glaring clarity. Presage slowed his actions as he pushed the door open wide, taking a cautious step into the broken room. 

Frowning deeply, Emere tiptoed into the room, his eyes drinking in the details of the ruined space. Shifting beneath his feet, the splinters of glass crunched like fresh-fallen snow. Crouching low, he slid his finger through the dark splatters painted upon the floor, the cold, sticky liquid clung to his skin. Blood. The fine hairs at the nape of his neck rose, like that of a wolf poised for a fight, his haunched braced for combat. Instantly he rose, turning about the room, but he was alone.

Another door stood ajar. 

**********

The Goblin King had not been easy to find.

Two hours Emere had searched, quietly stalking the private corridors and passageways, sneaking glances into empty rooms trying to discern man from shadow. As the dawn chorus began and the clouds burned amber, lighting the Labyrinth in shimmering gold, the adviser happened upon the king. Perhaps he should have known to search the private study tucked within the vast, towering library— he did possess the key, after all— but his mind was weary, and exhaustion, a living breathing entity, possessed his soul. 

As demon exorcised by a mortal priest, Emere was purged of his languor the moment he laid eyes on his quarry. He was feral. The mismatched eyes burned with unbridled fire above dark, heavy circles of sleeplessness as he hunched over the large desk littered with the haphazard towers of books. Each were stacked with tottering otioseness as a figure leaned, with hunched shoulders over an open tome, whispering feverishly under his breath. “NO!” he bellowed, slamming his fist against the innocent pages. “There must be…” his voice trailed away as he tossed the heavy book to the floor. Snatching another from an unsteady rickle, he frantically leafed through the pages nearly tearing them from the spine. His desultory enthusiasm was an endangerment to the ancient volumes littering the floor.

Wisely, Emere had not immediately made his presence known. Spellbound by the obstreperous man and his aberrant behavior, he lingered at the open doorway, watching as he tossed another rare and aged text aside. 

"My Lord?"

Starting at the uninvited sound, the king looked up sharply. Mismatched eyes bristled with fervid rancor as his nostrils tost above snarling lips. "What?!" He barked before diving back into his work, the chorus of pages whispering in the quiet room. 

Three more met the same fate. 

Growling, the king slammed his fist against the desk, the obtunding sound crashed against the thick stone walls. Leaning onto his hands, he sagged under harrowing avoirdupois as his head dolorously fell forward. A melancholic sigh pushed through his thin and weary lips, “What?” he asked in a gruff, desperate whisper.

"What, indeed." Emere frowned, tipping his head to the hunched man, before smoothing his features and strolling idly into the room with his hands clasped lightly against his back. Casually, as not to alarm the tetchy, irascible man propped over his desk, the adviser brushed his gaze over the spines of the mountain. Unknowingly his peppered brow arched as the titles made themselves known as he completed his perusal of the now-crowded office, his lips twitching to regain the austere frown left at the door. “You were never so engrossed with these books as a boy; as I recall you claimed them dull, and utterly useless.” Sentimentality overtook him, replaying memories of a young prince with the shimmering, golden hues of ameliorating fondness. “Twice you drove a tutor to near-madness with your bored antics…” the memory drifted between them like plump, feathering snowflakes. How he missed those days of roguery and meretricious delight! How much easier things had seemed so long ago, before the crown and the Labyrinth. 

Before _her._

“Thrice.” The King corrected with a purr of palliation, “three tutors fled their duties, refusing to further my education on the claim that I was unteachable.” 

A low, pleasant chuckle rumbled from Emere as he moved to the edge of the desk, tracing his fingers along the spines resting there. “Your humor was rather solipsistic and dry, even as a young boy. I always did appreciate your gaiety; it is no wonder they did not.”

“Yes.” Mismatched eyes lifted to meet with those of his companion, all trace of humor had fled, “and my father had me whipped for my puerility." 

The adviser, having learnt the preponderancy of silence, bit his tongue; for there was nothing he could say against the truth. After a time however, the festering whispers of his emotions began to sing their chorus once more and he was helpless but to beg his questions. 

"With your father dead and your tutors gone, what drives your curiosity thusly?" Plucking the book from the table he read the spine aloud. _"Passage and Mortar; Brick and Blood,"_ his eyes flashed, as his spoke with a thin, dark voice. "Why would you bring this from the vaults?" Dropping his voice to the quietest sibilation, as though the walls might gossip in his absence of the crowns greatest secrets, Emere pressed on. "Whatever it is you seek, I beg you do not find your answers here. It is a fool's errand to find solace in the accursed texts."

Seemingly unaffected by the adviser's blatant objections to his choice of cull, the king straightened and moved around the edge of the desk. Linking his hands behind his back, he strolled languidly to the window, a mollifying smirk stretching his thin lips. The King stood motionless, honeyed-beams of sunlight streamed through the glass highlighting the muscles of his angular face as they drew taut beneath his tawny, untrimmed beard. His eyes fixated on an invisible point out beyond the glass amid the sprawling scenery of the glacial, snow-dusted Labyrinth. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he offered his friend a peculiar smirk. “You fret too much, Emere.” The change in his voice was notable, the lilt too faineant as he studied his companion, and the heavy volume in his hands. “That book…” his mercurial eyes nearly rolled out of his head, as he spun with practiced grace to fully face the other man, his finger aimed at the offending tome. Stalking nearer he growled, snatching the item with a thief’s eagerness, his nostrils flaring. _“That_ damned book has proved to be as useful as fire to a drought!” 

Without warning the book slammed against the stones, the sound barreling off the walls a moment before a dozen crystals exploded against the worn, embossed cover. Again and again the perfect spheres rent the air shattering into millions of glittering fragments of iridescent dust. All at once the tirade ended, and the room was drenched in a tidal wave of silence, broken only by the heaving, panting breaths of the King, and the erratic popping in the hearth.

Not a shard nor spec marred the cover. 

Thick as tar, the cumbrous silence pressed stone by stone against their lungs as the minutes ticked on. A permanent scowl cut lines across the King's brow, twitching as he ground his teeth in agitation.

Anger and fear and regret had ruled him weeks since his faculties returned, stealing his sleep and concentration. Emere noted the changes, but chose to maintain his own counsel, bearing silent witness as the King's wiry frame twitched at the faintest click of boots, or knock upon his door. 

Like a starving man awaits his next meal, the king awaited his Riddle’s call.

Mordant, like gravel underfoot, the desperate man's whisper slashed the air like a dull blade ripping through skin, dragging Emere back to the present. To his king.

"She believes me dead."

"Wh-- the girl?"

"She is convinced her wish killed me!" Raking a hand through his disheveled locks, he hissed loudly, grinding his teeth. "She refused to wish me back!"

Blinking at the sudden admission, Emere stuttered, his brows rising to his hairline. "I suppose it is a plausible explanation. However, until she makes her wish it is merely… theoretical."

"She has wished," casting a crystal into the roaring hearth, the man roared his frustrations into the dancing flames. "She never stopped."

"I don't unders--"

"Sarah never stopped wishing! Never!" Sad, grief-laden eyes lifted to his, their mismatched depths blackened with worry. Defeated, the blonde sighed, his shoulders sagging from the effort. "All this time... I have heard nothing." After a beat, he strode to the mantle, his arms bracing against the ornate molding as his fingers wrapped along the edge. _ **"Nothing!"**_

"How…" the adviser began, his tone choked with caution. In much the same manner a man tames a lion, Emere pressed his ruler, demanding an answer to the question he was certain he did not want. "How do you know this?" 

Silence.

“How…?” Slowly, his eyes narrowed, cresting into thin, disbelieving slits. "What have you done?"

**********

Louis Praet pulled his pocket watch from the thin pocket of his waistcoat and glared at the cracked face. It was nearing five o’clock, and still there was no sign of his fragile beauty. The open hall of the asylum was crowded, as it was every day at this hour, and he glanced about looking over the oddities and loons with a frown. He recognized most of the faces and the ones he didn’t were of little concern.

He knew that the hoard would soon thin, as the charges were returned to their cells for their evening slop and rest. The fortunate few with enough family coin to line the Estate’s coffers were sent for their refined treatments, where they would receive personalized care. Often, he or another of the many guards of the Estate were called upon to offer their assistance with unruly patients, using any manner of force to subdue the unwilling. 

Tonight he was free and so was his flightless bird.

**********

The dinner tray had not come that night. Nor the two before.

Waiting atop the dirty pile of weeks-old straw mattress, lumped and matted and stained from use, Sarah drifted from the world of oblivion and peace to wakefulness and pain. Drawn protectively against her breast, her injured hand pulsed, the fingers had curled as the skin swelled and purpled. When the sun had set she was left in perfect darkness as sleep teased at her senses. Her eyes were raw, crusted with the salt of her long-dried tears. 

Surrendering to the tenebrose void of slumber, Sarah closed her eyes as exhaustion dulled her senses. Her dreams came quickly, but alas they offered no reprieve from her torment; her mind conjuring horrible visions of broken wings and charred flesh. 

Sarah jolted violently, pulling herself from the depths of her nightmares with a gasp on her lips. Panic welled in her breast, itching along her spine as she trembled in fear. The room had fallen to pitch, her hand barely visible at the end of her nose. Thudding wildly in her chest, her pulse galloped, and her stomach churned. The room was too small. The air too close.

Seized by a sudden fit of dread, Sarah darted to the door, clawing wildly at the barricade. “Please! Please! Let me go!” Whimpering she banged on the heavy wood, tearing at the seams, but it did not move. Crazed, her tears threatened to drown her as she begged hoarsely for release, her fingers attacking the hinges and pins as if she might pull them free. “Please!” Her screams crashed against her ears, pounding against her skull as she slammed her hands against the wood, heedless of her broken fingers. Digging into the coarse metal, she did not notice the fire racing up her arm, nor the warm, slick blood dripping from her nails. 

Finally, she gave up and collapsed against the door, exhausted and spent. Her hands twitched in her lap, crimson and dripping as her breath came in shuddering sobs. Throbbing, she could feel the inflammation puffing her mangled hands to the point of agonized paralysis. White-hot pain lit the nerves in her fingers as she tried to push off the floor, falling back onto her rump with a sharp cry. She stayed that way, pressed against the unyielding door, sobbing into the dark.

**********

The locket glinted in the torchlight, dull and tarnished as it was. The little rose, once white, was now tinged black from the constant caress of soot and grime stained fingers. Sighing, his head fell back against the uneven stone as his eyes fell closed listening for any sound of the girl on the other side of the wall. 

For weeks he had remained posted beside her door, not by order, but rather by choice. Guarding the fragile creature had become his unspoken duty that he was loathe to ignore. With each sunrise his need for her grew, and with it the ever-beckoning aria swelled, enticing him with images of what might be… His eyes lifted, caressing the latch, knowing the operose groan that would follow as he slid the pin free. 

She would know the moment he entered. 

As not to frighten her further, he would bring a torch, though admittedly it would be more for his benefit than her own. He wanted to see her; sitting perched at the edge of the bed, her nightgown askew, hair mussed from sleep. She would pull the blanket closer, not for warmth, but to preserve her modesty as a blush tinged her cheeks, her green eyes sparkling with innocent fire. He would watch the lift of her hand, palm open inviting his own to take refuge. 

He would not deny her.

She would draw him nearer, pulling him lightly onto the open, waiting space beside her, a coquettish smile pulling at her lips. Enticing him to taste— and taste he would, savoring the feel of her full lips beneath his own. Bringing his hand to her cheek, bending her back, pressing her further into the mattress, trapping her in his embrace. His hands would slide between the thin fabric of her nightgown coaxing the sound of her desire to echo about the room, growing louder with every moment until her final shout of ecstasy would fade into a sated sigh.

He could wait no longer. He had been patient, so very patient. Rising to his feet, he stowed the necklace in his breast pocket, tapping it once for luck. Smoothing his hair back, he tugged at the hem of his worn waistcoat, and cleared his throat. It was time. Reaching for the bolt hold, he was stopped short as a cry rent the placid night air, rooting him to the spot.

Cold washed through his veins like a winter storm, purging the heat of passion, leaving only presage and fear. Pulling his hand from the bolt as if burnt, he staggered back, clutching a hand to his pocket and the souvenir within. He had nearly ruined everything— acting on his lust like a virgin schoolboy! Fool! He chastised, Reckless! Thoughtless fool! Turning his back to the door, Louis took a steadying breath, calming the hurricane of his mind. Shaking his head, Praet lifted his chin, squaring his shoulders he took a step down the narrow hall.

“Please!” the wailing all but blended with the hellacious chorus of deviants. _**“Please!”**_ Banging followed the wretched sound, frantic drumming tattooing in the torch lit corridor. 

Spinning to the door with breakneck speed, Louis pressed his palms against the rough, dark wood scratching his calloused skin. His pulse quickened with the desire to comply, the tremulous crack of her voice was nearly his undoing as he screwed his eyes shut. 

That voice!

Euphoric and melodious, the sound-- even desperate as it was-- pressed upon his need, like a kiss on a pulse; warm and maddening. Too long he had yearned to hear her speak and make real that which was merely fantasy. Thirteen weeks he had waited, thirteen weeks hoping that she would gift him a single word.

At long last here was his reward! The first notes of a tuning violin, a single drop of rain in a vast desert: he wanted more.

So much more.

Teetering on the edge of witless impulsivity, his fingers tapped the rhythm of his pulse against the barricade he so wished to destroy. "Speak." He commanded in a breathless whisper, as a single digit caressed a dark vein in the wood.

Silence greeted him.

The longer his demand went ignored the harder his blood raged and his anger roared. Turning his head, Louis listened with rapt intent for more, the shell of his ear just brushing the door.

Her whimpers assaulted his senses, just loud enough to seep through the minuscule seams of the wood, driving their hooked talons with fatal precision into his flesh.

An agonized whimper seeped through the seams of the door, followed by her frayed hum. "I--I wish…" her voice caught, "I w-wish…he... w-were here." Two heartbeats echoed, "Now! Please, please come back…please!" Her sobs grew louder, the words nearly unintelligible as she blubbered desperately. "I w-wish y-you… _NOW!_ I wish…"

White sparks flashed behind his eyes as his draconian control snapped in twain. In his thirty four years, Louis Praet had never been appellated a particularly brilliant man, but even he knew the girl did not mean him. The revelation should not have churned the bile in his gut, nor sent the blood pulsing to this ears, and yet it had. Who could his little bird be wishing for? 

An unfamiliar heat singed each vertebrae, the heat at the base of his skull almost unbearable. Had she a white knight, his armor blinding under the noonday sun, coming to whisk her away from his limited reach? 

No! No, that would not do! Sarah Williams was the brightest star in the heavens, her beauty incomparable even in such a place as this! Now she wished to leave-- to be rescued by some unnamed swine? He would not allow it!

Neither would Father Elswick. 

**********

The halls were silent and the night still. 

The bed was never warm. The wool blanket was too thin, too moth-eaten to provide heat behind the icy stone. Shaking beneath the coarse cloth, she cradled her fingers, tacked with blood and splinters from her sudden hysterical furor. She could not sleep. Her mind mercilessly tortured her with rippling memories of the mercurial man slain with naught but her words. A knife blade stabbed behind her eyes, the pressure building to a catalytic swelling that, once burst, would leave her blind.

Screaming upon its hinges, the heavy wooden door swung open, the flickering torchlight flooding the room with a weak orange glow. The pain flared, and she shut her eyes against the luminescence, burying her face beneath the harsh blanket with a groan. She knew better than to hide, but her limbs were too weak, her mind too tired to do otherwise.

The cold splashed over her skin as the covering was ripped from her body, leaving her trembling atop the straw mattress in only her issued nightdress. Curling into the tightest ball she could manage, Sarah whimpered, lifting her arms to shield her grimacing face. 

Fingers dug into the flesh of her arm, the bruises forming almost instantly beneath her sleeve, as she was tugged crudely to her feet where she swayed on the spot. Her hand found purchase as she attempted to steady herself, her palm lying flat against the chest of the intruder, but try as she might she could not force her eyes to fully open as another hand grabbed her. Mewling pathetically, she fought against the vice-grip of her captor, but her efforts were in vain. Wrenched from her feet, she collided with the blunt, rounded edge of a shoulder, the sharp ache grating against the pleats of her ribs. Gasping to reclaim her stolen breath, her struggling died instantly as bile rose in her throat. Blinking at the wall of tears swelling along the edge of her lashes, her heart hammered in her throat. Where were they taking her? What had she done? 

Despite the nausea pooling in her stomach with each jarring step, exhaustion was the greater foe, and she could not strike down. Time seemed to blur, fading into a pool of swirling onyx, teasing the frayed edges of her nerves. The arm locked over the back of her thighs shifted, and before her mind could consider a protest, she was dropped to the floor as a grocer drops a sack of grain. Her wrist took the weight of her fall, sending a sharp, needling pain through the joint. 

She was given no time to mourn as the same guard who had tossed her into the room, dove his hand into her matted, unclean curls to drag her across the frozen stones. Sarah screamed. Both hands shot to scratch and claw at the appendage tangled in her hair heedless of her crooked, raw fingers, and quickly swelling wrist. Kicking wildly about, her feet struggled to find purchase, as she was trawled across the long, narrow room. The pressure on her scalp dissipated the moment she was released from the unforgiving hold, and deposited facing the farthest wall, rolling onto her hands as if she might run. The chaotic drumming of her agony eased into its usual chorus of pulsing dolor, as Sarah looked over her shoulder, taking in the unassumingly bare room. A large flaming hearth at the opposite end consumed most of the wall, flanked on either side by tall, iron candelabras, each sparsely filled. A single chair waited in the corner, and nothing else. Her blood ran cold.

She knew this room.

Louis moved swiftly, reaching her side before she could skitter out of reach. His little bird gaped with wide, tearful eyes, silently pleading for mercy. Crouching to her level, he offered a crooked smile, "You will thank me for this.” He reached a hand to her, and she flinched, trembling under his piercing gaze. “It is better this way… you will see." He snatched at her wrists ensnaring both with ease, the sound of her tears cracked the misshapen fragments of his heart. He ignored the pitiful cry as he knelt behind her, raising her hands high above her head to the shackles dangling from the ring bolted to the wall, Louis locked her wrists in the cold iron shackles. 

In a stolen moment, before rising to his feet, the guard leaned close, pressing his nose into the mess of her curls. With a deep, slow inhale, Louis savored the scent, buried beneath the dirt and grime, of her unique essence. 

Her perfume lingered about him as he reclaimed his post by the door. His eyes never leaving her as she struggled against her restraints, her knees scratching against the unforgiving floor. Rattling loudly from her efforts, the chains rolled against one another as she tried to saw her hands free. 

A splash against her cheek jolted her mercilessly from the fog of her efforts, careening her back into the room with breakneck force. Red and turgid, her eyes lifted to the over-sized crucifix, inlaid with gold filigree and precious stones, demanding her devout contrition. Three more beads dropped from her tattered wrists, landing on her forehead and chin. 

The door swung open suddenly, the hinges sighed but said little else as two persons entered the small space. The Elswick brothers marched into the room, their faces locked in austere consternation. While the physician, Harold, was disheveled and mussed; his hair haphazardly tied at the base of his neck, with a dark blue dressing gown tossed over wrinkled bedclothes. The priest was the picture of decorum, not a thread nor hair was out of place and his dark frock was perfectly pressed despite the midnight hour. His face appeared freshly washed, and his face newly shaved as he strolled to the large chest beside the dancing fire. 

A moment before the door closed, the slight figure of a woman rushed in, her arms laden with fresh linen fabric which she placed on the empty chair. Like the doctor, she too appeared bedraggled, the shadows of sleep hanging beneath her slate colored eyes. Her gaze flitted to Louis, a faint rosebud blooming on her cheeks before collapsing into a morose lour as he pushed past her, his calloused hand brushed accidentally with hers. The mounting anger that had been simmering like a bone-stew for nigh on a week, threatened to bubble over the kettle of her control as she looked at the pathetic, trembling creature. Her vows dictated she was to be a Samaritan, but her wicked heart refused to comply.

Admittedly, her heart _had_ bled for the girl, as it did for every wretched soul locked within the bowels of the madhouse. Edith Milburn pitied the accused bride-to-be and her star-crossed nuptials, sensing deep in her heart that the poor thing was— as most were— innocent. The girl seemed too fragile, too logical to stray from her fiancé and the shelter of his extensive wealth… that was until the night of the girl’s prayers. 

Consumed by the piteous melody plucked against her heartstrings, Edith offered two shillings to Hugo, the night guard, begging that he allow the girl a few hours rest. Gladly he accepted the offer. When the dawn began to break, an hour or so before the others rose from their beds, the nun rushed to the chapel, to relieve the guard and wake the broken girl. Her heart was light with the warmth that only divine charity can provide, threatening to burst along seems from her joviality as she skipped along the corridors, bounding down the steps like a child. 

Peering through the stained glass windows, Edith frowned as she observed the two figures locked in a long, intimate embrace beneath the cross. Glancing over her shoulder around the empty hall, she listened for the sound of others, she heard nothing. After a moment of blaring silence, she peeked at the pair again.

Shattering like glass upon the very stones on which she stood, her heart crashed into the pit of her stomach, the force nearly knocking her from her feet. Sarah Williams was not wrapped in the embrace of Hugo, but Louis. _Her_ Louis! His face was nestled in the mess of her hair, his hand running languidly along her spine— there was no mistake.

Sarah Williams was a tart who deserved to be punished.

“Could this not have waited until morning?” Harold asked, his gazed looking tiredly to his brother. “What has she done now?” Scrubbing the tiredness from his face, his dark eyes rimmed with red as he looked to Sarah frowning deeply at the sight of her. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he motioned for his brother to proceed. “Let us begin.”

Simon twirled the smooth leather grip in his palms, trying to quell his rising excitement behind a frostbitten glare. The answering whine of the creaking hide beneath his fingers was the balm to his grossly agitated sense of rightness. Over a week had passed since the Cat brandished her claws, and he was itching see her scratch.

Sarah Williams deserved the lash, of that he had no doubt.

All the fragrances of Versailles could not mask the stench of her rotting soul. He had expected an innocent when the arrangements were made, a hapless obstacle obstructing the path of another's ambition. The day of her Cleansing proved otherwise. Her cries, bellowed in the chaos of her suffering, should have been for her father-- her God. Instead, she wished her demon return.

It was then he understood the depths of her depravity.

"You disappoint me, Sarah." He strolled forward, clasping his hands at the base of his spine, prowling the room like a jungle cat. "I prayed it would not come to this. I pleaded with the Almighty that you would see the error of your ways and repent.” Sighing heavily, he stopped, lifting his chin to the ornate cross hanging above the terrified girl. "Your Cleansing has failed. Your soul is lost." His eyes darkened, filled with enraged regret, "The devil has found you, Sarah Williams, and you will burn." The whip purred in his hands, thirsting for another taste of fresh, warm curor. "If a baptism by water and fire were insufficient to free you from the clutches of Evil… then perhaps a baptism by blood will save you."

It was Harold who spoke next, gone was the tired, yawning drone to his voice, replaced with a newfound brightness. "Sister Milburn, if you please."

Each patient, be it male or female, wore the same muslin nightgown, not unlike those folded in the trunks of families across Europe: high necklines fastened with four small buttons, long, wide sleeves with a simple ruffle at the cuff, and modest hemlines. The only difference between the clothes within the asylum and those beyond was the neat row of ties along the back of the gown. 

Edith reached down and with clinical detachment separated the ties exposing Sarah’s pale back to the chilly room. The girl shivered, and she could not help but smile.

Maintaining the dark, insidious whisper that had so easily stolen her attention, Father Elswick purred. “The cat o’nine tails is a delicate instrument. In the hands of an inexperienced wielder, the chances of survival are rather low. It is a pity the world is full of sinners who require a firm hand…I have become a master of the cat o’nine tails.” His voice stopped as the scratching of the tails dancing along the floor rang about the room. 

Lifting his face to the Heavens he began the scourging. “Let the saints be joyful in glory; let them sing aloud in their homes! Let the high praises of God linger on their lips, a double-edged sword clutched firm in their hands; to execute vengeance upon the heathen, and punishment upon the people!”

Like the first note struck before a symphony, the initial strike of his whip would be a single pitch meant to tune the others. Shifting on his feet, Simon adjusted his stance in much the same manner a violinist moved to cradle the instrument. He turned his hips just so, shaking the tension from his arm watching, the tails as they flitted along the floor. A liberating hum echoed into the chamber as he snapped his wrist just enough to score the skin without drawing blood. The girl twitched against her restraints whimpering, though she did not cry out-- just as he’d hoped. He was creating an aria, a blend of pain and punishment that would linger like the final notes of an orchestration, her cries would be the libretto, each note perfectly sung.

Sarah felt the sweat begin to bead between her shoulder blades, trickling down her spine as fear claimed her senses. The pain had been little more than a sting, the tails teased but did not bite. It had been a promise, a testament of what was to come.

Tears collected along her lashes, weighing the fine hairs but not quite spilling over. The vow of imminent pain terrified her, but it was not the omnipresent cloud hanging above her. Sin and loss ruled her thoughts, the hellish sounds of cracking bone and twisting flesh played repeatedly in the back of her mind.

Blinking away the living nightmare, her tears finally poured over her cheeks as the image of his wretched corpse flashed behind her eyes. Foolishly, she welcomed the lash to strip her mind of that sound— if only for a moment.

“You were branded to walk in the ways of the Lord, and still your forget Him!” Elswick slapped the whip against the stones, the small crowd flinched. “Do you know why you are here, why you must be scourged?” His arms spread wide to encompass the room, his brows lifting in chastisement. Tightening his hold, his mouth broadened with a scurrilous grin. “The secrets you keep will only add to the chains that bind your soul.” He waited a moment, but the girl did not speak. The charge in the room pulsed, pregnant with apprehension. “You have made a mockery of God, wishing your beast return! He will stand it no more!”

The pain came before the sound.

Her back arched. Bloodied hands clenched, her mouth falling open in a deafening shriek as the judgment of God split her spine. 

Louis turned away. 

Edith took a step forward. A holy passion, ripe with vendetta swelled in her breast as she watched enraptured, as the wound bled. Pearls of blood sprayed in an arc, dripping along the floor as the wild tails wrapped around the priest in a strange embrace, painting ribbons of red along his crisp linen shirt. As the man straightened, biding his time until the next strike, he allowed the whip to hang lax at his side, the wet leather sparkling in the firelight. Silently Edith studied him and then his weapon, marveling at the simplicity of such a barbaric instrument: loose leather adorned with iron crosses woven along the knots and plaiting. Glancing from the viscous implement to the target only a few feet away, Edith could not stop her sharp inhale at the sight of the lachrymose woman hanging beneath the cross. Eight ribbons, of varying length painted her back in a horrific mess of crisscrossing stripes. A single laceration, near the base of her neck, stood in stark contrast to the others. This wound was deeper, the edges wide and jagged where the skin had been ripped free. 

The physician studied the scene with keen eyes. Sarah Williams had never been truly lashed. Her previous experience was little more that a stinging scrape, a warning meant to quell her disobedience. As with her Cleansing, it too failed. Her volitional silence had grated against his nerves, peeking his ire too monumental heights. He wanted her to suffer.

Harold Elswick was a man of science, of logic, unlike his brother. Both viewed the helpless, bleeding girl through vastly different lenses. Simon saw her as a lost soul, a prodigal child in desperate need of redemption, one who would bend beneath the rod. Pain was a means of repentance; as Christ hung in agony on the cross, his wrists and feet dripping from the bite of the nail, his back flayed, and his brow torn in the name of salvation, so too would the stubborn suffer. While Harold did believe in the maxim of suffering, his interests lay in the aftermath of agony. 

Though he did enjoy the spectacle.

Silence crawled across the floor, skirting the bloodied stones, slithering under the skin of the onlookers, daring them speak. Simon watched with rapt attention, his pupils wide, his pulse wild. This had always been his favorite part: the choked gasps trailing weakly behind the first howl of pain as the arching back slowly sagged, forcing the wounds to weep a dark crimson. The words too, were precious— windows into the soul of the condemned. Deeper than the darkest oceans, baring more truth than mere confession. 

What would her words be, he wondered? A sibilated prayer, a plea for mercy, or a vehement troth of vengeance? Would she would hiss and spit like a feral cat in heat, or would her voice tremble from the weight of her anguish? His eyes rolled back, a simmering heat boiling in his belly as the anticipation grew to fever pitch, trapping his breath in his lungs. He wanted her words.

Silence.

A nostril twitched. 

Teeth gnashed.

The girl did not speak.

The second lashing came unbidden. The priest felt his arm move beyond his control. Whether guided by blackened rage or the brilliant glow of an angel’s hand, he knew not. Nor did he care. Anger seeped through his pounding heart, a raging fire purer and hotter than lust or zealotry. 

Sarah’s body rocked forward, her head smarting against the stone wall as she cried out once more. Her vision swam, the edges fluttering in an out of focus as her back poured her life elixir in copious drops. 

Sarah wanted to die.

“You dare defiance now, with your back flayed?” Simon barked, freckles of her blood coating his face. “Beg forgiveness you brazen Jezebel!” 

The whip belted against her flesh, the sonorous crack rippling through the air as her neck wrenched back from the force. Brighter than the noonday sun in the stifling heat of August, the gnawing, naked pain devoured her with its gaping maw of Hell. Her scream was silent. Her body shook, her knees slipping in the growing pool beneath her. 

Had he felt this way, her murdered lord, as his bones splintered and shattered, and lacerations spread like wildfire across his flesh? Had he wished for death as the foul, blinding agony overwhelmed each and every faculty? Had each feather been a blade sawing through his pores as they reached the surface? Had he begged for death as she did now?

The image of the Goblin King standing in the midst of her pathetic garden shone brilliantly behind her eyes. Fresh as a spring bloom, and just as fragile, the memory of his mismatched eyes smiling shimmered behind her eyes. He stood staring down on her, leaning close, asking if she had missed him with a quirked brow. His lips lingering mere inches from her own as she withheld her answer, afraid of what the admittance would mean.

The memory vanished as pain ripped through her.

“P—p-plea…” the sound did not touch the stones before her, her voice too weak to carry. The priest was talking, but she could not understand the muffled lecture. Her vision was nearly black, her mind swimming, her stomach rolling, her body swayed as a weighty numbness settled deep in her limbs, paralyzing her movements, but doing nothing to stilt the excruciating burn of her back nor the throbbing ache in her shoulders as she hung from her chains.

Say the words… It was a hum at the ridge of her ear, a sound only she could hear. A dream. You must wish… The words felt familiar, like the smell of mint leaves or honey, it was calming and filled with warmth. Make your wish…

A burning seared her chest, the memory of his words a brand upon her heart, summoning the scent of charred flesh, puckering and spitting under the hot iron. Madness overtook her, loosing her tongue as she formed the verboten words. 

“I w-w-w-wis…” she gasped, fighting for the air between the thunderous storm of pain. “Wi—wish… h-here…”

The priest was speaking again, his voice filled with lacerating rancor as he bellowed his unintelligible demands. Leather scraped along the floor, her fear forcing the sound through her decaying senses, as the man teased before the fourth lash landed.

Sarah broke. Her mouth filled with copper, a thin stream leaking from the corner of her lips. She coughed, a spray of blood and spit staining the stone wall. “

_MAKE YOUR WISH!_

"Stop! Stop, you can't learn anything from a dead body!" The doctor shrieked. 

_**WISH ME BACK!** _

She jumped at the bellowed command ringing as if from a nearby mountain. Warmth flooded her breast, and she dared to try once more. “W-w-wi…sh…I…w—wish…” Her mouth opened of its own accord, trembling as she tried to form more than her plangent, gurgled whimpering. “Y-you… y-you… h-h…” Sounds drifted away to the pulsing rhythm of her heart, echoing the waterfall of her back.

Simon did not hear his brother, too lost in his determination to see reason. He ignored the pale Louis, who stood with his back turned, nor did he notice Sister Edith Milburn with her eyes glowing in satisfied horror. His vision was locked in the deepest tunnel, his gaze fixated on the harlot who would bring the devil himself to sup their feet. “Do you not hear her, dear brother? Even still she calls to the beast! Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft…” the priest spat venomously. “And thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

_**ENOUGH!** _

Oblivion bid her welcome.

The room trembled as a deafening blast rent the air. A raging tempest filled the narrow space, the sudden wind wrapping invisible fingers around the occupants with dedicated slowness. The whip cracked and a bellowing cry followed, accompanied fear-sodden screams and muttered pleadings. 

A voice she could not hear whispered brokenly above her, “…Sarah…”

**********

**End of Act 1**


	26. Chapter 26

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.**

**************

**ACT II**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

_Rage…_  
Despair…  
Amnesty… 

Sarah Williams understood pain. Having spent far too many hours atop her knees scrubbing the floors of forgotten rooms and the corners of a decaying hearth, her body would ache as the sun took its leave beyond the horizon. Climbing laboriously up the creaking stairs, her footfalls were heavy as she shuffled forlornly to her worn and lumped mattress, where she prayed sleep would claim her instantly. The dawn would illuminate the myriad of sores her exhaustion had not seen: raw patches on her hands where the lye had singed, the array of cuts stinging from the trimming knife at the shop, scabbed blisters across purpled knees, stripped callouses revealing bright pink flesh. 

Ritualistic pain endured with every rising sun.

Her father's carelessness leading collectors to rage at the door, the ever-looming threat of prisons and alleyways hanging on their lips. Enduring the weight of a shattered reputation and broken home. Selling her body—her soul— for the promise of protection behind the walls of a gilded cage, where the privileged would spit at her back with gleeful laughter. The crack of her lip beneath her father’s hand, the feel of his boot in her ribs, the sound of his drunken bellowing, the knife point of his slander: that was pain. 

Waiting at the edge of the woods beside a crystalline lake for an impossible phantasm beckoned by a wish, the ache of doubt pressing against her lungs. The fear of discovery. The burn of the cold on her cheeks as she searched the dense tree line, the frost prickling at her naked hands, pushing through the worn fibers of her threadbare cloak, seeping deep into her bones. All the while knowing that she was not his to keep and nor was he hers, it would be over before it began.

That too was pain.

Her gormless wish, horrifying and murderous, was an entirely new breed of suffering. Stabbing dull and rusted knives of guilt into her bleeding heart, renting her soul until she knew death would be preferable to this unending nightmare. The crushing weight of her secret, of her shattered heart hanging in her breast, whilst her features remained unchanged to the outside world had been unbearable. The silence that followed each wish, confirming her worst fears that he was in fact dead by her hand— her words— was agony.

The moment the whip kissed her back, Sarah understood: she knew nothing of pain.

The whip was a newfound and overwhelming torment, the spires of suffering towering into the night as if to touch the stars. In all her life, she could not have imagined such excruciating, relentless torture as the bite of the tails, the hiss of the iron. She could not accept nor reason with this pain, only endure it. Sarah could not remember how long it lasted, only that a sudden blackness had welcomed her with widespread arms.

In that void, Sarah Williams wished for death.

Feeling her soul lost to the ever-burning pit of Hell where the vilest of demons clawed at her spine, tearing it vertebrae by vertebrae from beneath her flesh, the minutes were lost to her as she wept in her prison. Her throat burned, raw from the screams she could not contain as she slid into the snapping, gnawing teeth of her pain. Howling roared around her, thrumming against her eardrums in an erratic rhythm that threatened to drive her mad, the sound like a lonely, wounded beast. 

Curling around her agonizing throes like a dragon with its hoard, her body shook like the last leaves of autumn trapped in a snowy storm. She whimpered as another galling wave crashed against her nerves, dragging her deep below the depths of consciousness where her minutes were lost once more. Her mind shifted like wisps of clouds, ephemeral and fleeting tufts that evaporated at the barest touch or lingering glance. 

Time blurred, waxing and waning until she felt herself floating weightless, surrounded by warmth and a fleeting familiarity. Until that too was stripped away, replaced with coarse cloth against her terrorized flesh as the howling returned. A voice, small but potent, demanded she fight, but her limbs would not comply. 

The barest touch against her cheek jolted her very core, even within the darkness she screamed, pulling away from the contact. She could feel her lips shaping the words— the words that had damned her so completely. How could she think them after all they had done— knowing he was gone? 

Once more the touch returned, more insistent, coaxing as the pressure moved to her jawline. Her head was lifted from its resting place and for the first time she noticed the voice of another, the words muddled and faraway, as a warm putrid liquid was poured down her throat. She coughed, the jarring movement setting her back aflame, and she cried out, gasping for breath. 

A hand smoothed along her brow, the voice whispered, much closer now, but the words were still lost to her senses. Something cool and smooth pressed against her temple, the sensation dissolving softly into her pores spreading like hot tea through her veins. Drop by drop the soothing sensation filled her, like the sands of an hourglass, the vibrant pain saturating into the dull grey of morning mist. The monument of her heartbreak lifted from her breast, and her lungs opened greedily, swelling almost painfully before deflating, pushing every ounce of woe and tension, agony and guilt from her being. 

The world faded away once more.

**********

Slow as the rising tide, Sarah felt each voracious stripe along her back as her medicines drained from her body. Fire radiated through the gaping, oozing wounds coated in a thick, sticky paste that smelled of honey and bark. Her fingers twitched atop the smooth sheets, as she tried to orient herself, but the task seemed too great for her broken body. Too afraid of what she might find in the world of wakefulness, her eyes remained shut as she kept one foot in the well of her torpor.

She was not alone.

A quiet rustling confirmed the presence of another, who ambled about the space with clinical precision, no sound too jarring or misplaced. The soporific melody lulled her into the realm of calm, where the water rippled in the breeze bringing the memory of moonlit paths and pebbled shores. 

Hours or perhaps minutes later, the song changed as a new sound reverberated about the room: footsteps, determined and sure. The stride confident and powerful, followed by the soft hurried steps of another, trailing somewhere behind.

Fear returned. Sickness rolled through her veins, pooling in her achingly empty stomach, and she bit back the tears building at the corners of her eyes not wanting her wakefulness to be known. Thrumming wildly in her breast, her heart threatened to break through her ribs.

A distant voice broke through the hurricane of her delirium, "Why does she still sleep?" The chords belonged to a man, deep and stern.

"Her injuries required a much greater dosage than previously thought." A woman answered, her voice filled with the softness only age could provide. "It is only natural her body reject the medicines…"

"Is she healing?" The man demanded, a growl rolling on his words. There was a strange stillness, and the woman grew quiet, the timbre of her voice too low for Sarah to hear. The man's resulting displeasure was all too clear. "I want to know the moment she wakes… you can manage that, can’t you?”

A delicate clamor confused her dulled senses making it impossible to orient herself in the room. Still she did not open her eyes. The pair began arguing as they paced further away from her, and Sarah was able to relax once more into the welcoming arms of sleep.

**********

The ache returned to her breast, and so too did the fire on her back. Wakefulness was a newfound Hell she had not realized existed— knowledge she wished she did not possess. Her flogging had come on the accusation of a wish whispered in a palace of martyrdom by a man of God she did not trust. The wish was a lie, a falsehood spoken for the sake of destruction and obedience.

A lie that nearly killed her.

Trembling against the orchestral crescendo of fear paralyzing her limbs at the very thought of her injuries, Sarah dampened the prickling feather pillow with her tears. For the first time since her scourging she dared to peek at her temporary lodgings and the risk being seen by occupant within. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the dimly lit space with exhausted slowness. 

The room was as ordinary as she.

Before her, sat a vacant chair she was certain would creak under the barest strain. From her limited view, she could see the usual trappings of a healer's home: a large shelf stocked with an array of bottled ingredients, dried herbs hanging from the rafters above a large table, a kettle simmering over the open fire. Whatever lay behind her was a mystery, for she dared not turn to look. She laid back upon her borrowed bed with a hushed grimace of pain.

How long had she been here? Was this where the damaged were brought to heal? Would the physician deem her health sufficient to return to her room? What would they do to her now that she had been scourged? Where was her nursemaid— the nuns?

_Where was Father Elswick?_

“Madam! Madam!” a frightened voice called from somewhere outside the room, making her jump. The owner was young, too young for Sarah to determine the gender as the sound grew closer. “Madam, please! Help!” 

The door behind Sarah burst open, and her eyes slammed shut not wanting her consciousness to be discovered by the woman being beckoned. “Hush, child!” The nurse called out, appearing from some unseen location, “Has the devil come for ya?”

Sarah frowned, before quickly resetting her features. Why had the child come to the Estate for help? Were their circumstances so dire they would risk stepping foot through the gates of Hell? Was there no one left in the world to help them? Or were they perhaps kin?

Squinting her eyes, her teeth ground fiercely together as she grimaced, the embers of her pain flaring with each ticking moment. The effects of her salve were ebbing and her swallowed groans grew harder and harder to repress. 

“Help! The bairn’s coming!” The child cried with a small, watery voice. "You must help!"

“Collie, I am a healer,” The woman answered with an exasperated sigh, “run along and fetch the midwife. I have my own charge to look after.” She began to move around the room, her footsteps slow and clustered, were accompanied by the gentle clatter of busywork. 

“She… not…there!” Collie wailed, sniffling after every word. “Can’t… find…her!”

Dangerous and slow, like a poison creeping through her veins drop by drop, a revelation tinted her blood, embedding deep in her brain. _Escape, you cannot stay here! One side of the door offers hope, the other, death._ Latching to the truth like a parasite, the gears began to turn, the tentative brush strokes painting the canvas of her imagination with glaring black ink. Escape. 

Biting her cheek, Sarah listened with rapt attention.

“Collie— er—” she could feel eyes on her back, even through the crackling layers of pain as the woman pondered her decision. “I— I—” another moment passed, the child began to whimper audibly, pleading softly through their tears. "Hush, Collie, I'm thinking."

The child moaned. 

The woman cursed as something slammed against the table, her defeated sign audible. "Come on then...but we must make haste. It'll be my hide that's tanned if we're caught!" 

Her words were accompanied by a squeal of delight, as the child clapped enthusiastically, muttering ardent words of gratitude as they shuffled out of the room. Their retreating footsteps punctuated by the low thump of the closing door.

_Escape!_

Sarah held her breath, waiting for the woman to return. Wait… wait… Her heart hammered in her breast as she counted the seconds as though a clock ticked from its nesting place on the wall. There were no such sounds. The room remained silent. _Death within these walls… or a chance of life beyond them._

_Go now!_

Gathering her strength, she pressed her palm into the mattress lifting up awkwardly from her side. Nausea prickled against her throat and she gagged on her whimper as fresh tears slid along her cheeks, dripping into the sheets. Glancing carefully over her shoulder, Sarah stared at the door far longer than she ought, indecision weighing heavily against her thoughts. 

_Life or death… make your choice!_

Setting her feet against the floor, Sarah stood with great privation, her body swaying on the spot as she tried desperately to gather her bearings. Terror ran through her like ice as her vision faltered. Agony threatened to crush her under its thumb as her vision faltered, her head lulling heavily atop her neck. Shakily her hand stretched before her, feeling for obstructions as she limped gracelessly across the floor. A sob lodged in her throat as sweat beaded along her brow. She shook so badly now she could not think, her sense of direction teetering on the edge of delirium, but still she pressed onward.

Stumbling over her own deformed feet, bare on the cold stone floor, Sarah walked with faltering steps, her fingers brushing against foreign objects that rattled and clinked as she passed. Peering through the pulsing ache, drumming behind her eyes, she cried out as her hand pressed firm against the door, the torrent of her tears cascading to the stones.

The door was far heavier than she expected, the tattered muscles of her back bellowed in protest as she pulled at the wood. Wrapping all ten fingers around the black iron ring, she bent her knees and slowly leaned her diminutive weight back onto her heels. Her back bled anew, hellfire racing along her spine as the door creaked inch by inch until at long last she could abandon her efforts and slip through the narrow opening into the waiting grey.

Snow covered the ground, the once white blanket now darkened, dented with the smattering of muddied footprints and prowling beasts. The air was wet, a shroud of mist hung low in the sky, painting the world in teardrops, as though it too were mourning her suffering. She tasted the cold long before she felt it, the crisp, bright moisture that clung to her lips as she swallowed her first breath beyond the walls of the asylum. 

Through the fogged haze of her troubled and exhausted mind, Sarah surveyed the gravelly road sprawling before her. The path was narrow and close, framed by walls of stone, nothing looked familiar— but why should it? She had not been conscious for the journey, nor had she been granted the privilege of looking out the windows— whatever lay in the world outside her prison was yet to be discovered.

Sarah did not look back. 

Stepping forward, her bare foot sunk into the snow, the crisp white flakes burning the exposed flesh. Hissing sharply, Sarah tried to ignore the throbbing ache as the cold sank deep into her muscles. Sarah shivered, pushing through the dense curtain of her pain, hardly aware of where she was going. She refused to remain immobile, the very idea jarring her nerves as she walked with deliberate, hastened steps desperate to be free of the snow. 

Sarah drifted forward with outstretched hand searching for any point of contact, sobbing audibly when she at last, found it. She drifted forward, her fingers trailing along the wall, clinging to the uneven surface like a lifeline, as though it might keep her buoyant in the waters of her suffering. She frowned, wondering if she was going the wrong way. Altering course, she turned slinking into the heavy shadows of an alley, the pang in her feet becoming far greater than that of her back. The weightlessness of hope dissolved in the pit of her stomach, turning into the angry hooked talons of tenebrose fear.

Were there no vagabonds on the streets save for she? Were there no women promising a piece of themselves for a few meager coins, or thieves prowling in the shadows? 

Throwing away those thoughts, Sarah trudged on, her head swaying atop her shoulders as her body trembled with lethal force. Her eyes were heavy, her throat tight. How far had she gone? Glancing behind her with a wild hiss, Sarah frowned at the muddied footprints marking her path like a painted trail screaming her escape. Hot tears warmed her cheek for a moment, before freezing against the biting wind. 

This was a mistake.

Agony enveloped her as she leaned more heavily into the stone wall, grinding her chattering teeth against myriad of pains encasing her body. Hollow and black, the sickening hole in her breast gaped, whispering vicious taunts of deserved penance and retreat. 

_Life or death…_

Straightening the barest fraction, her wounds coated in frosted salve and blood wept from the unwanted motion. _I would rather die here… than return to the Estate!_ Whatever lingered in the frozen unknown, waiting behind the shrouded alleyways, and lamp-lit streets could not be worse than the fate waiting behind the doors of the Estate. 

Grinding her teeth, Sarah pressed onward.

The shadows thickened as the night grew dark and Sarah stumbled out of the alley with graceless steps as sensation faded from her toes. Had she gone far enough? Tossing a glance behind her, Sarah gasped as pain erupted along her back, she was alone. Were she being followed, surely her pursuers would be swift and not toy with her as a cat to a mouse? Feeling unseen eyes roving her person, their phantom hands tracing along her wounded back, Sarah hastened her steps, unaware of the first bloodied print in her trail. 

The air was frigid, the ground frozen. 

Blindly she pursued her imagined course, the faint breeze cutting through her coarse nightgown as a cold, cloying fog crept across the roads. Unlike any she had known before; a living breathing entity that possessed the night, as a demon to its host. Unaware of her actions, a gentle song took wing. The tune stolen from an opera she had heard years ago but had never seemed to forget, echoing softly into the still, quiet night. The hushed eeriness of her surroundings made her skin crawl and her humming grew louder as she waited for some great thing to strike her down and leave her bleeding on the roadside, to feast on her flesh until dawn. Her fear freshened the force of her injuries, and suddenly she was all too aware of the liquid dripping from her back and the blood painting her raw footsteps. 

A scuffling at her left sent her barreling into the nearest wall, her hand clamped over her mouth and her back pressed flush with the rough surface. Hot tears streamed from her eyes as she awaited discovery, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as the sounds drew closer, the peculiar crunching of snow underfoot, punctuated with an operose sigh. Choking on the sob threatening to burst from her lungs, Sarah pushed harder against the wall, silently begging that it swallow her whole. 

Nearer still they came.

Her chest throbbed from the merciless pounding of her heart. I cannot go back! Her entire being began to shake, Please! No! NO! Her eyes misted as the exertion proved too much for her mangled body, her teeth began to chatter and her knees grew weak. She was tired. Too tired to run— to move. For a fleeting moment fear had washed away the burden of her injuries, and she squandered those precious seconds hiding in the pathetic alcove devoid of shadows awaiting her fate. 

Suddenly the moment was gone, replaced with the gnawing, burning throe of each laceration upon her back, and the brilliant, malady that was her frostbitten feet.

Closer now. 

Five more steps…

Her vision fogged, delirium chiseled away at her senses. _Let me die…please._ Sliding along a rough, wooden barricade, her body crumpled in a broken, bloody heap, her tears frozen upon her cheeks as blackness surrounded her. 

**********

Festooned with hundreds of tiny candles perched in elaborate chandeliers hanging like glittering clouds above the gathered assembly, the marble floors reflected the flickering lights with ebullience. Towering columns of pearlescent marble lined the walls, spaced evenly across the checkered floor. Great bowls of hand-blown glass lined the walls between pillars each brimming with fresh blooms, their sweet, heady fragrance mingling with the warm scent of beeswax. There was no music apart from the gentle murmuring of the crowd as they stood in wait. At the head of it all sat the throne, a magnificently carved seat of Mauritius ebony, fitted with plush, black velvet. 

For all in attendance, the King was the picture of blasé indifference, twirling a crystal with absentminded dejection. His leg slung casually over the ornate arm, his posture lax as he stared over the bowed emissary at the base of the stairs to the impressive crowd, each waiting anxiously for their scheduled audience with the mercurial man. 

The courier was handsome and poised. The picture of sophistication, his deep cocoa skin stood in stark contrast to the white marble making him the focus of all in the room. His clothes bespoke money and so too did his manner, as he addressed the monarch, unbothered by the crystal rolling to and fro atop a single gloved hand. Lost in the monologue of his grievances, the man was oblivious to the faraway look in the mismatched eyes as he addressed the crown. 

“My Liege, please look upon this humble servant with kindness I beg. I have no doubt that in your inestimable wisdom you will be able to bring untold riches to each corner of the world. I only hope that my master might be the means by which greater fortune will be befall the crown.” 

The King’s focus was not on the garish man, but rather the insipid woman shoving through the tawdry throng, her humble grey dress remarkable in a sea of color. Whatever propelled her steps as she crossed the back of the room, he could not say, but her frenzied trepidation was all too clear even from a distance. Racing to the last pillar on the left side of the hall, the woman moved with certainty to hidden space behind it, disappearing entirely from his view. 

Slowing in his grasp, the crystal lulled over his fingers, his eyes flitted from the pillar to the messenger who was still absorbed in his own flowery speech. "Your lands have been gracious and bountiful, and for that my master sends he respects, and in truth his envy. He is, as many would say, a genius…"

With controlled slowness, the King shifted to plant both his feet firmly on the floor, leaning forward to rest a forearm atop his thigh, the crystal still in his grasp. His free hand closed into a fist as he struggled to recollect his wayward thoughts.

The strange woman to his court was curious, and his attention took the bait as a fish to the lure dancing in the current. He could not move his gaze from where the woman had vanished, an excitement prickling anxiously across his skin. As the crystal resumed its course, spinning idly in his adroit hand, the King could not help but wonder what grievances brought her to his court.

Languorously, the King slid his gaze to the garish man, his mismatched eyes insouciant as the ball continued its lissome ballet over his gloved fingers. “Your Master’s accomplishments are impressive, I will grant you that, but his meretricious loftiness is not a reason for my concession. If his talents as you claim then certainly he has no need of me.” 

Flustered, the obstreperous messenger frowned spreading his hands wide in defense. “I fear I have erred, forgive me, Your Grace, for mixing my words.” Bowing his head he offered a circuitous rationalization of his previous ramblings, his hand pressed flat against his heart in a show of sincerity. “My master is not asking for aid, nor supplementation, but a merger. A marriage— or alliance, if your will— to forever link your two great houses.”

The woman emerged.

The crystal stopped. The pale hairs on his neck raised as ice crashed over his body, paralyzing him where he sat. His jaw clenched as the woman turned to face him, her bright cerulean eyes red and glistening, her once caramel skin the color of ash. Turning around, she bowed, pressing her lips against the hands of his adviser, who had appeared as suddenly as she from behind the pillar, before fleeing the Hall.

_Why is she here?_

The adviser moved to lean against the pillar in a mock-casual pose, his head purposefully turned away from the throne. The King’s eyes flashed to Emere, his lips a thin line cutting his sharp features. Glaring as if willpower alone could force his friend to meet his gaze, the King scowled, his vein pulsing at his temple. _Why is she **here?**_

Resisting the urge to grind his teeth was proving a greater task than he anticipated. There was no subtle way for a man of his caliber and countenance to practice such a noxious habit, and it took every ounce of his self-restraint to keep his features neutral. Minutes passed, slow and torturous, every second felt in the pulsing of his heart and the strain in his taut muscles. _ **WHY IS SHE HERE?!**_

At last Emere met his eyes.

The King’s brow lifted, the silent question passing between them. 

Emere shook his head.

The King stood. 

The crystal shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:I know the whole ACT ONE thing has thrown people for a loop but I promise it will eventually make sense. Admittedly, I had not planned on dividing the story into ACTS but my beta-bestie (BB) made far too many good points for me to ignore. In the spirit of truthfulness, I also pondered (very seriously) ending the story there, despite all of the plot and progression I had planned, part of me thought, “end it here, do it. DO IT!”   
> You have my BB (and friends) to thank for the change of heart. I am excited to write more, truly I am, I simply got too much in my head and worried I did not have the skills to write all that is yet to come. Again, thank my BB!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this story is a work in progress! I have many, many chapters written. I have posted this before but it needed some editing and fine tuning, and at long last it is ready!
> 
> I will post as often as I am able. 
> 
> Please review/comment.... Seriously I LOVE the feedback XOXOXO
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.


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